THE SPANISH BROTHERS

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Title: The Spanish Brothers

Author: Deborah Alcock

Release Date: July 26, 2012 [eBook #40346]

Language: English

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THE ALGUAZILS PRODUCING THEIR WARRANT FOR ARREST.

 iii

THE
SPANISH BROTHERS.
A Tale of the Sixteenth Century.

By the Author of
”THE CZAR: A TALE OF THE FIRST NAPOLEON.”
&c. &c.
[Transcriber’s note: Author was Deborah Alcock]

”Thy loving-kindness is better than life.”

London
T. NELSON AND SONS, PATERNOSTER ROW.
EDINBURGH; AND NEW YORK.
1888.

CONTENTS.
I. BOYHOOD

II. THE MONK’S LETTER

III. SWORD AND CASSOCK

IV. ALCALA DE HENAREZ

V. DON CARLOS FORGETS HIMSELF

VI. DON CARLOS FORGETS HIMSELF STILL FURTHER

VII. THE DESENGANO

VIII. THE MULETEER

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IX. EL DORADO FOUND

X. DOLORES

XI. THE LIGHT ENJOYED

XII. THE LIGHT DIVIDED FROM THE DARKNESS

XIII. SEVILLE

XIV. THE MONKS OF SAN ISODRO

XV. THE GREAT SANBENITO

XVI. WELCOME HOME

XVII. DISCLOSURES

XVIII. THE AGED MONK

XIX. TRUTH AND FREEDOM

XX. THE FIRST DROP OF A THUNDER SHOWER

XXI. BY THE GUADALQUIVIR

XXII. THE FLOOD-GATES OPENED

XXIII. THE REIGN OF TERROR

XXIV. A GLEAM OF LIGHT

XXV. WAITING

XXVI. DON GONSALVO’S REVENGE

XXVII. MY BROTHER’S KEEPER

XXVIII. REAPING THE WHIRLWIND

XXIX. A FRIEND AT COURT

XXX. THE CAPTIVE

XXXI. MINISTERING ANGELS

XXXII. THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW OF DEATH

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XXXIII. ON THE OTHER SIDE

XXXIV. FRAY SEBASTIAN’S TROUBLE
XXXV. THE EVE OF THE AUTO
XXXVI. ”THE HORRIBLE AND TREMENDOUS SPECTACLE”
XXXVII. SOMETHING ENDED AND SOMETHING BEGUN
XXXVIII. NUERA AGAIN
XXXIX. LEFT BEHIND
XL. ”A SATISFACTORY PENITENT”
XLI. MORE ABOUT THE PENITENT
XLII. QUIET DAYS
XLIII. EL DORADO FOUND AGAIN
XLIV. ONE PRISONER SET FREE
XLV. TRIUMPHANT
XLVI. IS IT TOO LATE?
XLVII. THE DOMINICAN PRIOR
XLVIII. SAN ISODRO ONCE MORE
XLIX. FAREWELL

THE SPANISH BROTHERS.

I.
Boyhood.
vi

”A boy’s will is the wind’s will,

And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”–Longfellow.

On one of the green slopes of the Sierra Morena, shaded by a few cork-trees,

and with wild craggy heights and bare brown wastes stretching far above, there
stood, about the middle of the sixteenth century, a castle even then old and rather
dilapidated. It had once been a strong place, but was not very spacious; and cer-
tainly, according to our modern ideas of comfort, the interior could not have
been a particularly comfortable dwelling-place. A large proportion of it was oc-
cupied by the great hall, which was hung with faded, well-repaired tapestry, and
furnished with oaken tables, settles, and benches, very elaborately carved, but
bearing evident marks of age. Narrow unglazed slits in the thick wall admitted
the light and air; and beside one of these, on a gloomy autumn morning, two
boys stood together, watching the rain that poured down without intermission.
They were dressed exactly alike, in loose jackets of blue cloth, homespun,
indeed, but so fresh and neatly-fashioned as to look more becoming than many
a costlier dress. Their long stockings were of silk, and their cuffs and wide shirt-
frills of fine Holland, carefully starched and plaited. The elder–a very handsome
lad, who looked fourteen at least, but was really a year younger–had raven hair,
black sparkling eager eyes, good but strongly-marked features, and a complex-
ion originally dark, and well-tanned by exposure to sun and wind. A broader
forehead, wider nostrils, and a weaker mouth, distinguished the more delicate-
looking younger brother, whose hair was also less dark, and his complexion
fairer.
”Rain–rain! Will it rain for ever?” cried, in a tone of impatience, the el-
der, whose name was Juan; or rather, his proper style and title (and very angry
would he have felt had any part been curtailed or omitted) was Don Juan Rodrigo
Alvarez de Santillanos y Menaya. He was of the purest blood in Spain; by the fa-
ther’s side, of noblest Castilian lineage; by the mother’s, of an ancient Asturian
family. Well he knew it, and proudly he held up his young head in consequence,
in spite of poverty, and of what was still worse, the mysterious blight that had
fallen on the name and fortunes of his house, bringing poverty in its train, as the
least of its attendant evils.
”’Rising early will not make the daylight come sooner,’ nor watching bring
the sunshine,” said the quick-witted Carlos, who, apt in learning whatever he
heard, was already an adept in the proverbial philosophy which was then, and is
now, the inheritance of his race.
”True enough. So let us fetch the canes, and have a merry play. Or, better
still, the foils for a fencing match.”
 vii

Carlos acquiesced readily, though apparently without pleasure. In all out-

ward things, such as the choice of pursuits and games, Juan was the unquestioned
leader, Carlos never dreamed of disputing his fiat. Yet in other, and really more
important matters, it was Carlos who, quite unconsciously to himself, performed
the part of guide to his stronger-willed but less thoughtful brother.
Juan now fetched the carefully guarded foils with which the boys were
accustomed to practise fencing; either, as now, simply for their own amusement,
or under the instructions of the gray-haired Diego, who had served with their
father in the Emperor’s wars, and was now mayor-domo, butler, and seneschal, all
in one. He it was, moreover, from whom Carlos had learned his store of proverbs.
”Now stand up. Oh, you are too low; wait a moment.” Juan left the hall
again, but quickly returned with a large heavy volume, which he threw on the
floor, directing his brother to take his stand upon it.
Carlos hesitated. ”But what if the Fray should catch us using our great
Horace after such a fashion!”
”I just wish he might,” answered Juan, with a mischievous sparkle in his
black eyes.
The matter of height being thus satisfactorily adjusted, the game began,
and for some time went merrily forward. To do the elder brother justice, he gave
every advantage to his less active and less skilful companion; often shouting (with
very unnecessary exertion of his lungs) words of direction or warning about fore-
thrust, side-thrust, back-hand strokes, hitting, and parrying. At last, however,
in an unlucky moment, Carlos, through some awkward movement of his own in
violation of the rules of the game, received a blow on the cheek from his brother’s
foil, severe enough to make the blood flow. Juan instantly sprang forward, full
of vexation, with an ”Ay de mi!” on his lips. But Carlos turned away from him,
covering his face with both hands; and Juan, much to his disgust, soon heard the
sound of a heavy sob.
”You little coward!” he exclaimed, ”to weep for a blow. Shame–shame upon
you.”
”Coward yourself, to call me ill names when I cannot fight you,” retorted
Carlos, as soon as he could speak for weeping.
”That is ever your way, little tearful. You to talk of going to find our father!
A brave man you would make to sail to the Indies and fight the savages. Better
sit at home and spin, with Mother Dolores.”
Far too deeply stung to find a proverb suited to the occasion, or indeed to
make any answer whatever, Carlos, still in tears, left the hall with hasty footsteps,
and took refuge in a smaller apartment that opened into it.
The hangings of this room were comparatively new and very beautiful,
being tastefully wrought with the needle; and the furniture was much more costly
viii

than that in the hall. There was also a glazed window, and near this Carlos took
his stand, looking moodily out on the falling rain, and thinking hard thoughts of
his brother, who had first hurt him so sorely, then called him coward, and last,
and far worst of all, had taunted him with his unfitness for the task which, child
as he was, his whole heart and soul were bent on attempting.
But he could not quarrel very seriously with Juan, nor indeed could he for
any considerable time do without him. Before long his anger began to give way
to utter loneliness and discomfort, and a great longing to ”be friends” again.
Nor was Juan much more comfortable, though he told himself he was quite
right to reprove his brother sharply for his lack of manliness; and that he would
be ready to die for shame if Carlos, when he went to Seville, should disgrace
himself before his cousins by crying when he was hurt, like a baby or a girl. It is
true that in his heart he rather wished he himself had held his peace, or at least
had spoken more gently; but he braved it out, and stamped up and down the hall,
singing, in as cheery a voice as he could command,–

”The Cid rode through the horse-shoe gate, Omega like it stood,
A symbol of the moon that waned before the Christian rood.
He was all sheathed in golden mail, his cloak was white as shroud:
His vizor down, his sword unsheathed, corpse still he rode, and
proud.”

”Ruy!” Carlos called at last, just a little timidly, from the next room–”Ruy!”

Ruy is the Spanish diminutive of Rodrigo, Juan’s second name, and the one
by which, for reasons of his own, it pleased him best to be called; so the very use
of it by Carlos was a kind of overture for peace. Juan came right gladly at the
call; and having convinced himself, by a moment’s inspection, that his brother’s
hurt signified nothing, he completed the reconciliation by putting his arm, in
familiar boyish fashion, round his neck. Thus, without a word spoken, the brief
quarrel was at an end. It happened that the rain was over also, and the sun just
beginning to shine out again. It was, indeed, an effect of the sunlight which had
given Carlos a pretext for calling Juan again to his side.
”Look, Ruy,” he said, ”the sun shines on our father’s words!”
These children had a secret of their own, carefully guarded, with the
strange reticence of childhood, even from Dolores, who had been the faithful
nurse of their infancy, and who still cast upon their young lives the only shadow
of motherly love they had ever known–a shadow, it is true, pale and faint, yet
the best thing that had fallen to their lot: for even Juan could remember neither
parent; while Carlos had never seen his father’s face, and his mother had died at
 ix

his birth.
Yet it happened that in the imaginary world which the children had cre-
ated around them, and where they chiefly lived, their unknown father was by far
the most important personage. All great nations in their childhood have their
legends, their epics, written or unwritten, and their hero, one or many of them,
upon whose exploits Fancy rings its changes at will during the ages when na-
tional language, literature, and character are in process of development. So it
is with individuals. Children of imagination–especially if they are brought up in
seclusion, and guarded from coarse and worldly companionship–are sure to have
their legends, perhaps their unwritten epic, certainly their hero. Nor are these
dreams of childhood idle fancies. In their time they are good and beautiful gifts
of God–healthful for the present, helpful for after-years. There is deep truth in
the poet’s words, ”When thou art a man, reverence the dreams of thy youth.”
The Cid Campeador, the Charlemagne, and the King Arthur of our youth-
ful Spanish brothers, was no other than Don Juan Alvarez de Menaya, second
and last Conde de Nuera. And as the historical foundation of national romance
is apt to be of the slightest–nay, the testimony of credible history is often ruth-
lessly set at defiance–so it is with the romances of children; nor did the present
instance form any exception. All the world said that their father’s bones lay
bleaching on a wild Araucanian battle-field; but this went for nothing in the eyes
of Juan and Carlos Alvarez. Quite enough to build their childish faith upon was
a confidential whisper of Dolores–when she thought them sleeping–to the vil-
lage barber-surgeon, who was helping her to tend them through some childish
malady: ”Dead? Would to all the Saints, and the blessed Queen of Heaven, that
we only had assurance of it!”
They had, however, more than this. Almost every day they read and re-
read those mysterious words, traced with a diamond by their father’s hand–as it
never entered their heads to doubt–on the window of the room which had once
been his favourite place of retirement:–

”El Dorado
Yo hé trovado.”

”I have found El Dorado.”

No eyes but their own had ever noticed this inscription; and marvellous in-

deed was the superstructure their fancy contrived to raise on the slight and airy
foundation of its enigmatical five words. They had heard from the lips of Diego
many of the fables current at the period about the ”golden country” of which
x

Spanish adventurers dreamed so wildly, and which they sought so vainly in the
New World. They were aware that their father in his early days had actually
made a voyage to the Indies: and they had thoroughly persuaded themselves,
therefore, of nothing less than that he was the fortunate discoverer of El Dorado;
that he had returned thither, and was reigning there as a king, rich and happy–
only, perhaps, longing for his brave boys to come and join him. And join him one
day they surely would, even though unheard of dangers (of which giants twelve
feet high and fiery dragons–things in which they quite believed–were among
the least) might lie in their way, thick as the leaves of the cork-trees when the
autumn winds swept down through the mountain gorges.
”Look, Ruy,” said Carlos, ”the light is on our father’s words!”
”So it is! What good fortune is coming now? Something always comes to
us when they look like that.”
”What do you wish for most?”
”A new bow, and a set of real arrows tipped with steel. And you?”
”Well–the ’Chronicles of the Cid,’ I think.”
”I should like that too. But I should like better still–”
”What!”
”That Fray Sebastian would fall ill of the rheum, and find the mountain air
too cold for his health; or get some kind of good place at his beloved Complutum.”
”We might go farther and fare worse, like those that go to look for better
bread than wheaten,” returned Carlos, laughing. ”Wish again, Juan; and truly
this time–your wish of wishes.”
”What else but to find my father?”
”I mean, next to that.”
”Well, truly, to go once more to Seville, to see the shops, and the bull-fights,
and the great Church; to tilt with our cousins, and dance the cachuca with Doña
Beatriz.”
”That would not I. There be folk that go out for wool, and come home shorn.
Though I like Doña Beatriz as well as any one.”
”Hush! here comes Dolores.”
A tall, slender woman, robed in black serge, relieved by a neat white head-
dress, entered the room. Dark hair, threaded with silver, and pale, sunken, care-
worn features, made her look older than she really was. She had once been beau-
tiful; and it seemed as though her beauty had been burned up in the glare of some
fierce agony, rather than had faded gradually beneath the suns of passing years.
With the silent strength of a deep, passionate heart, that had nothing else left to
cling to, Dolores loved the children of her idolized mistress and foster-sister. It
was chiefly her talent and energy that kept together the poor remains of their
fortune. She surrounded them with as many inexpensive comforts as possible;
 xi

still, like a true Spaniard, she would at any moment have sacrificed their comfort
to the maintenance of their rank, or the due upholding of their dignity. On this
occasion she held an open letter in her hand.
”Young gentlemen,” she said, using the formal style of address no familiarity
ever induced her to drop, ”I bring your worships good tidings. Your noble uncle,
Don Manuel, is about to honour your castle with his presence.”
”Good tidings indeed! I am as glad as if you had given me a satin doublet.
He may take us back with him to Seville,” cried Juan.
”He might have stayed at home, with good luck and my blessing,” mur-
mured Carlos.
”Whether you go to Seville or no, Señor Don Juan,” said Dolores, gravely,
”may very probably depend on the contentment you give your noble uncle re-
specting your progress in your Latin, your grammar, and your other humanities.”
”A green fig for my noble uncle’s contentment!” said Juan, irreverently. ”I
know already as much as any gentleman need, and ten times more than he does
himself.”
”Ay, truly,” struck in Carlos, coming forward from the embrasure of the
window; ”my uncle thinks a man of learning–except he be a fellow of college,
perchance–not worth his ears full of water. I heard him say such only trouble
the world, and bring sorrow on themselves and all their kin. So, Juan, it is you
who are likely to find favour in his sight, after all.”
”Señor Don Carlos, what ails your face?” asked Dolores, noticing now for
the first time the marks of the hurt he had received.
Both the boys spoke together.
”Only a blow caught in fencing; all through my own awkwardness. It is
nothing,” said Carlos, eagerly.
”I hurt him with my foil. It was a mischance. I am very sorry,” said Juan,
putting his hand on his brother’s shoulder.
Dolores wisely abstained from exhorting them to greater carefulness. She
only said,–
”Young gentlemen who mean to be knights and captains must learn to give
hard blows and take them.” Adding mentally–”Bless the lads! May they stand by
each other as loyally ten or twenty years hence as they do now.”

II.
The Monk’s Letter
xii

”Quoth the good fat friar,

Wiping his own mouth–’twas refection time.”–R. Browning.

”Fray Sebastian Gomez, to the Honourable Señor Felipe de Santa Maria, Licen-

tiate of Theology, residing at Alcala de Henarez, commonly called Complutum.

”Most Illustrious and Reverend Señor,–

”In my place of banishment, amidst these gloomy and inhospitable moun-
tains, I frequently solace my mind by reflections upon the friends of my youth,
and the happy period spent in those ancient halls of learning, where in the morn-
ing of our days you and I together attended the erudite prelections of those noble
and most orthodox Grecians, Demetrius Ducas and Nicetus Phaustus, or sat at
the feet of that venerable patriarch of science, Don Fernando Nuñez. Fortunate
are you, O friend, in being able to pass your days amidst scenes so pleasant and
occupations so congenial; while I, unhappy, am compelled by fate, and by the
neglect of friends and patrons, to take what I may have, in place of having what
I might wish. I am, alas! under the necessity of wearing out my days in the un-
grateful occupation of instilling the rudiments of humane learning into the dull
and careless minds of children, whom to instruct is truly to write upon sand or
water. But not to weary your excellent and illustrious friendship with undue
prolixity, I shall briefly relate the circumstances which led to my sojourn here.”
(The good friar proceeds with his personal narrative, but by no means
briefly; and as it has, moreover, little or nothing to do with our story, it may
be omitted with advantage.)
”In this desert, as I may truly style it” (he continues), ”nutriment for the
corporeal frame is as poor and bare as nutriment for the intellectual part is alto-
gether lacking. Alas! for the golden wine of Xerez, that ambery nectar wherewith
we were wont to refresh our jaded spirits! I may not mention now our temperate
banquets: the crisp red mullet, the succulent pasties, the delicious ham of Es-
tremadura, the savoury olla podrida. Here beef is rarely seen, veal never. Our
olla is of lean mutton (if it be not rather of the flesh of goats), washed down with
bad vinegar, called wine by courtesy, and supplemented by a few naughty figs or
roasted chestnuts, with cheese of goat’s milk, hard as the heads of the rustics who
make it. Certainly I am experiencing the truth of the proverb, ’A bad cook is an
inconvenient relation.’ And marvellously would a cask of Xerez wine, if, through
the kindness of my generous friends, it could find its way to these remote moun-
tains, mend my fare, and in all probability prolong my days. The provider here
is an antiquated, sour-faced duenna, who rules everything in this old ruin of a
 xiii

castle, where poverty and pride are the only things to be found in plenty. She is
an Asturian, and came hither in the train of the late unfortunate countess. Like
all of that race, where the very shepherds style themselves nobles, she is proud;
but it is just to add that she is also active, industrious, and thrifty to a miracle.
”But to pass on to affairs of greater importance. I have presumed, on the
part of my illustrious friend, some acquaintance with the sorrowful history of
my young pupils’ family. You will remember the sudden shadow that fell, like
the eclipse of one of the bright orbs of heaven, upon the fame and fortunes of
the Conde de Nuera, known, some fifteen years ago or more, as a brilliant soldier
and courtier, and personal favourite of his Imperial Majesty. There was a rumour
of some black treason, I know not what, but men said it even struck at the life of
the great Emperor, his friend and patron. It is supposed that the Emperor (whom
God preserve!), in his just wrath remembered mercy, and generously saved the
honour, while he punished the crime, of his ungrateful servant. At all events, the
world was told that the Count had accepted a command in the Indies, and that
he sailed thither from some port in the Low Countries to which the Emperor had
summoned him, without returning to Spain. It is believed that, to save his neck
from the axe and his name from dire disgrace, he signed away, by his own act,
his large property to the Emperor and to Holy Church, reserving only a pittance
for his children. One year afterwards, his death, in battle with the Araucanian
savages, was announced, and, if I am not mistaken, His Majesty was gracious
enough to have masses said for his soul. But, at the time, the tongue of rumour
whispered a far more dreadful ending to the tale. Men hinted that, upon the
discovery of his treason, he despaired alike of human and divine compassion,
and perished miserably by his own hand. But all possible pains were taken, for
the sake of the family, to hush up the affair; and nothing certain has ever, or
probably will ever, transpire. I am doubtful whether I am not a transgressor in
having committed to paper what is written above. Still, as it is written, it shall
stand. With you, most illustrious and honourable friend, all things are safe.
”The youths whom it is my task to instruct are not deficient in parts. But
the elder, Don Juan, is idle and insolent; and withal, of so fiery a temper, that he
will brook no manner of correction. The younger, Don Carlos is more toward
in disposition, and really apt at his humanities, were it not that his good-for-
nothing brother is for ever leading him into mischief. Don Manuel Alvarez, their
uncle and guardian, who is a shrewd man of the world, will certainly cause him
to enter the Church. But I pray, as I am bound in Christian charity, that it may
not occur to him to make the lad a Minorite friar, since, as I can testify from
sorrowful experience, such go barely enough through this wicked and miserable
world.
”In conclusion, I entreat of you, most illustrious friend, with the utmost
xiv

despatch and carefulness, to commit this writing to the flames; and so I pray our
Lady and the blessed St. Luke, upon whose vigil I write, to have you in their good
keeping.–Your unworthy brother, ”SEBASTIAN.”

Thus, with averted face, or head shaken doubtfully, or murmured ”Ay de mi,”
the world spoke of him, of whom his own children, happy at least in this, knew
scarce anything, save words that seemed like a cry of joy.

III.
Sword and Cassock.

”The helmet and the cap make houses strong”–Spanish Proverb

Don Manual Alvarez stayed for several days at Nuera, as the half-ruined castle

in the Sierra Morena was styled. Grievous, during this period, were the suffer-
ings of Dolores, and unceasing her efforts to provide suitable accommodation,
not merely for the stately and fastidious guest himself, but also for the troop of
retainers he saw fit to bring with him, comprising three or four personal atten-
dants, and half a score of men-at-arms–the last perhaps really necessary for a
journey through that wild district. Don Manuel scarcely enjoyed the situation
more than did his entertainers but he esteemed it his duty to pay an occasional
visit to the estate of his orphan nephews, to see that it was properly taken care
of. Perhaps the only member of the party quite at his ease was the worthy Fray
Sebastian, a good-natured, self-indulgent friar, with a better education and more
refined tastes than the average of his order; fond of eating and drinking, fond
of gossip, fond of a little superficial literature, and not fond of troubling him-
self about anything. He was comforted by the improved fare Don Manuel’s visit
introduced; and was, moreover, soon relieved from his very natural apprehen-
sions that the guardian of his pupils might express discontent at the slowness of
their progress. He speedily discovered that Don Manuel did not care to have his
nephews made good scholars: he only cared to have them ready, in two or three
years, to go to the University of Complutum, or to that of Salamanca, where they
 xv

might remain until they were satisfactorily provided for–one in the Army, the
other in the Church.
As for Juan and Carlos, they felt, with the sure instinct of children, in this
respect something like that of animals, that their uncle had little love for them.
Juan dreaded, more than under the circumstances he need have done, too careful
inquiries into his progress; and Carlos, while he stood in great outward awe of
his uncle, all the time contrived to despise him in his heart, because he neither
knew Latin, nor could repeat any of the ballads of the Cid.
On the third day of his visit, after dinner, which was at noon, Don Manuel
solemnly seated himself in the great carved armchair that stood on the estrada at
one end of the hall, and summoned his nephews to his side. He was a tall, wiry-
looking man, with a narrow forehead, thin lips, and a pointed beard. His dress
was of the finest mulberry-coloured cloth, turned back with velvet; everything
about him was rich, handsome, and in good keeping, but without extravagance.
His manner was dignified, perhaps a little pompous, like that of a man bent upon
making the most of himself, as he had unquestionably made the most of his for-
tune.
He first addressed Juan, whom he gravely reminded that his father’s impru-
dence had left him nothing save that poor ruin of a castle, and a few barren acres
of rocky ground, at which the boy’s eyes flashed, and he shrugged his shoulders
and bit his lip. Don Manuel then proceeded, at some length, to extol the no-
ble profession of arms as the road to fame and fortune. This kind of language
proved much more acceptable to his nephew, and looking up, he said promptly,
”Yes, señor my uncle, I will gladly be a soldier, as all my fathers were.”
”Well spoken. And when thou art old enough, I promise to use my influence
to obtain for thee a good appointment in His Imperial Majesty’s army. I trust thou
wilt honour thine ancient name.”
”You may trust me,” said Juan, in slow, earnest tones. Then raising his head,
he went on more rapidly: ”Beside his own name, Juan, my father gave me that
of Rodrigo, borne by the Cid Ruy Diaz, the Campeador, meaning no doubt to
show–”
”Peace, boy!” Don Manuel interrupted, cutting short the only words that
his nephew had ever spoken really from his heart in his presence, with as much
unconsciousness as a countryman might set his foot on a glow-worm. ”Thou
wert never named Rodrigo after thy Cid and his idle romances. Thy father called
thee so after some madcap friend of his own, of whom the less spoken the better.”
”My father’s friend must have been good and noble, like himself,” said Juan
proudly, almost defiantly.
”Young man,” returned Don Manuel severely, and lifting his eyebrows as if
in surprise at his audacity, ”learn that a humbler tone and more courteous man-
xvi

ners would become thee in the presence of thy superiors.” Then turning haughtily
away from him, he addressed himself to Carlos: ”As for thee, nephew Carlos, I
hear with pleasure of thy progress in learning. Fray Sebastian reports of thee
that thou hast a good ready wit and a retentive memory. Moreover, if I mistake
not, sword cuts are less in thy way than in thy brother’s. The service of Holy
Mother Church will fit thee like a glove; and let me tell thee, boy, for thou art
old enough to understand me, ’tis a right good service. Churchmen eat well and
drink well–churchmen sleep soft–churchmen spend their days fingering the gold
other folk toil and bleed for. For those who have fair interest in high places, and
shuffle their own cards deftly, there be good fat benefices, comfortable canonries,
and perhaps–who knows?–a rich bishopric at the end of all; with a matter of ten
thousand hard ducats, at the least, coming in every year to save or spend, or lend,
if you like it better.”
”Ten thousand ducats!” said Carlos, who had been gazing in his uncle’s
face, his large blue eyes full of half-incredulous, half-uncomprehending wonder.
”Ay, my son, that is about the least. The Archbishop of Seville has sixty
thousand every year, and more.”
”Ten thousand ducats!” Carlos repeated again in a kind of awe-struck whis-
per. ”That would buy a ship.”
”Yes,” said Don Manuel, highly pleased with what he considered an indica-
tion of precocious intelligence in money matters. ”And an excellent thought that
is of thine, my son. A good ship chartered for the Indies, and properly freighted,
would bring thee back thy ducats well perfumed.[#] For a ship is sailing while
you are sleeping. As the saying is, Let the idle man buy a ship or marry a wife.
I perceive thou art a youth of much ingenuity. What thinkest thou, then, of the
Church?”

[#] With good interest.

Carlos was still too much the child to say anything in answer except, ”If it please
you, señor my uncle, I should like it well.”
And thus, with rather more than less consideration of their tastes and ca-
pacities than was usual at the time, the future of Juan and Carlos Alvarez was
decided.
When the brothers were alone together, Juan said, ”Dolores must have been
praying Our Lady for us, Carlos. An appointment in the army is the very thing
for me. I shall perform some great feat of arms, like Alphonso Vives, for instance,
who took the Duke of Saxony prisoner; I shall win fame and promotion, and then
 xvii

come back and ask my uncle for the hand of his ward, Doña Beatriz.”
”Ah, and I–if I enter the Church, I can never marry,” said Carlos rather
ruefully, and with a vague perception that his brother was to have some good
thing from which he must be shut out for ever.
”Of course not; but you will not care.”
”Never a whit,” said the boy of twelve, very confidently. ”I shall ever have
thee, Juan. And all the gold my uncle says churchmen win so easily, I will save
to buy our ship.”
”I will also save, so that one day we may sail together. I will be the captain,
and thou shall be the mass-priest, Carlos.”
”But I marvel if it be true that churchmen grow rich so fast. The cura in the
village must be very poor, for Diego told me he took old Pedro’s cloak because
he could not pay the dues for his wife’s burial.”
”More shame for him, the greedy vulture. Carlos, you and I have each half
a ducat; let us buy it back.”
”With all my heart. It will be worth something to see the old man’s face.”
”The cura is covetous rather than poor,” said Juan. ”But poor or no, no one
dreams of your being a beggarly cura like that. It is only vulgar fellows of whom
they make parish priests in the country. You will get some fine preferment, my
uncle says. And he ought to know, for he has feathered his own nest well.”
”Why is he rich when we are poor, Juan? Where does he get all his money?”
”The saints know best. He has places under Government. Something about
the taxes, I think, that he buys and sells again.”
”In truth, he’s not one to measure oil without getting some on his fingers.
How different from him our father must have been.”
”Yes,” said Juan. ”His riches, won by his own sword and battle-axe, and
his good right hand, will be worth having. Ay, and even worth seeing; will they
not?”
So these children dreamed of the future–that future of which nothing was
certain, except its unlikeness to their dreams. No thing was certain; but what
was only too probable? That the brave, free-hearted boy, who had never will-
ingly injured any one, and who was ready to share his last coin with the poor
man, would be hardened and brutalized into a soldier of fortune, like those who
massacred tribes of trusting, unoffending Indians, or burned Flemish cities to the
ground, amidst atrocities that even now make hearts quail and ears tingle. And
yet worse, that the fair child beside him, whose life still shone with that child-like
innocence which is truly the dew of youth, as bright and as fleeting, would be
turned over, soul and spirit, to a system of training too surely calculated to oblit-
erate the sense of truth, to deprave the moral taste, to make natural and healthful
joys impossible, and unlawful and degrading ones fearfully easy and attainable;
xviii

to teach the strong nature the love of power, the mean the love of money, and all
alike falsehood, cowardice, and cruelty.

IV.
Alcala de Henarez

”Give me back, give me back the wild freshness of morning,

Her tears and her smiles are worth evening’s best light.”–Moore

Few are the lives in which seven years come and go with out witnessing any

great event. But whether they are eventful or no, the years that change children
into men must necessarily be important. Three years of these important seven,
Juan and Carlos Alvarez spent in their mountain home, the remaining four at
the University of Alcala, or Complutum. The university training was of course
needful for the younger brother, who was intended for the Church. That the elder
was allowed to share the privilege, although destined for the profession of arms,
was the result of circumstances. His guardian, Don Manuel Alvarez, although
worldly and selfish, still retained a lingering regard for the memory of that lost
brother whose latest message to him had been, ”Have my boy carefully educated.”
And, moreover, he could scarcely have left the high-spirited youth to wear out
the years that must elapse before he could obtain his commission in the dreary
solitude of his mountain home, with Diego and Dolores for companions, and for
sole amusement, a horse and a few greyhounds. Better that he should take his
chance at Alcala, and enjoy himself there as best he might, with no obligation to
severe study, and but one duty strongly impressed on him–that of keeping out of
debt.
He derived real benefit from the university training, though no academic
laurels rested on his brow, nor did he take a degree. Fray Sebastian had taught
him to read and write, and had even contrived to pass him through the Latin
grammar, of which he afterwards remembered scarcely anything. To have urged
him to learn more would have required severity only too popular at the time; but
this Fray Sebastian was too timid, perhaps too prudent, to employ; while of inter-
esting him in his studies he never thought. At Alcala, however, he was interested.
 xix

He did not care, indeed, for the ordinary scholastic course; but he found in the
college library all the books yet written in his native language, and it was then
the palmy age of Spanish literature. Beginning with the poems and romances re-
lating to the history of his country, he read through everything; poetry, romance,
history, science, nothing came amiss to him, except perhaps theology. He studied
with especial care all that had reference to the story of the New World, whither
he hoped one day to go. He attended lectures; he even acquired Latin enough
to learn anything he really wanted to know, and could not find except in that
language.
Thus, at the end of his four years’ residence, he had acquired a good deal
of useful though somewhat desultory information; and he had gained the art of
expressing himself in the purest Castilian, by tongue or pen, with energy, vigour,
and precision.
The sixteenth century gives us many specimens of such men–and not a
few of them were Spaniards–men of intelligence and general cultivation, whose
profession was that of arms, but who can handle the pen with as much ease
and dexterity as the sword; men who could not only do valiant deeds, but also
describe them when done, and that often with singular effectiveness.
With his contemporaries Juan was popular, for his pride was inaggressive,
and his fiery temper was counterbalanced by great generosity of disposition.
During his residence at Alcala he fought three duels; one to chastise a fellow-
student who had called his brother ”Doña Carlotta,” the other two on being pro-
voked by the far more serious offence of covert sneers at his father’s memory. He
also caned severely a youth whom he did not think of sufficient rank to honour
with his sword, merely for observing, when Carlos won a prize from him, ”Don
Carlos Alvarez unites genius and industry, as he would need to do, who is the
son of his own good works.” But afterwards, when the same student was in danger,
through poverty, of having to give up his career and return home, Juan stole into
his chamber during his absence, and furtively deposited four gold ducats (which
he could ill spare) between the leaves of his breviary.
Far more outwardly successful, but more really disastrous, was the aca-
demic career of Carlos. As student of theology, most of his days, and even some
of his nights, were spent over the musty tomes of the Schoolmen. Like living wa-
ter on the desert, his young bright intellect was poured out on the dreary sands
of scholastic divinity (little else, in truth, than ”bad metaphysics”), to no appre-
ciable result, except its own utter waste. The kindred study of casuistry was even
worse than waste of intellect; it was positive defilement and degradation. It was
bad enough to tread with painful steps through roads that led nowhere; but it
became worse when the roads were miry, and the mud at every step clung to the
traveller’s feet. Though here the parallel must cease; for the moral defilement,
xx

alas! is most deadly and dangerous when least felt or heeded.

Fortunately, or unfortunately, according as we look on the things seen or
the things not seen, Carlos offered to his instructors admirable raw material out
of which to fashion a successful, even a great Churchman. He came to them a
stripling of fifteen, innocent, truthful, affectionate. He had ”parts,” as they styled
them, and singularly good ones. He had just the acute perception, the fine and
ready wit, which enabled him to cut his way through scholastic subtleties and
conceits with ease and credit. And, to do his teachers justice, they sharpened
his intellectual weapon well, until its temper grew as exquisite as that of the
scimitar of Saladin, which could divide a gauze kerchief by the thread at a single
blow. But how would it fare with such a weapon, and with him who, having
proved no other, could wield only that, in the great conflict with the Dragon that
guarded the golden apples of truth? The question is idle, for truth was a luxury
of which Carlos was not taught to dream. To find truth, to think truth, to speak
truth, to act truth, was not placed before him as an object worth his attainment.
Not the True, but the Best, was always held up to him as the mark to be aimed at:
the best for the Church, the best for his family, the best for himself.
He had much imagination, he was quick in invention and ready in expedi-
ents; good gifts in themselves, but very perilous where the sense of truth is lack-
ing, or blunted. He was timid, as sensitive and reflective natures are apt to be,
perhaps also from physical causes. And in those rough ages, the Church offered
almost the only path in which the timid man could not only escape infamy, but
actually attain to honour. In her service a strong head could more than atone for
weak nerves. Power, fame, wealth, might be gained in abundance by the Church-
man without stirring from his cell or chapel, or facing a single drawn sword or
loaded musket. Always provided that his subtle, cultivated intellect could guide
the rough hands that wielded the swords, or, better still, the crowned head that
commanded them.
There may have been even then at that very university (there certainly
were a few years earlier), a little band of students who had quite other aims, and
who followed other studies than those from which Carlos hoped to reap worldly
success and fame. These youths really desired to find the truth and to keep it;
and therefore they turned from the pages of the Fathers and the Schoolmen to
the Scriptures in the original languages. But the ”Biblists,” as they were called,
were few and obscure. Carlos did not, during his whole term of residence, come
in contact with any of them. The study of Hebrew, and even of Greek, was by
this time discouraged; the breath of calumny had blown upon it, linking it with
all that was horrible in the eyes of Spanish Catholics, summed up in the one
word, heresy. Carlos never even dreamed of any excursion out of the beaten path
marked out for him, and which he was travelling so successfully as to distance
 xxi

nearly all his competitors.

Both Juan and Carlos still clung fondly to their early dream; though their
wider knowledge had necessarily modified some of its details. Carlos, at least,
was not quite so confident as he had once been about the existence of El Dorado;
but he was as fully determined as Juan to search out the mystery of their father’s
fate, and either to clasp his living hand, or to stand beside his grave. The love
of the brothers, and their trust in each other, had only strengthened with their
years, and was beautiful to witness.
Occasional journeys to Seville, and brief intervals of making holiday there,
varied the monotony of their college life, and were not without important results.
It was the summer of 1556. The great Carlos, so lately King and Kaiser, had
laid down the heavy burden of sovereignty, and would soon be on his way to
pleasant San Yuste, to mortify the flesh, and prepare for his approaching end, as
the world believed; but in reality to eat, drink, and enjoy himself as well as his
worn-out body and mind would allow him. Just then our young Juan, healthy,
hearty, hopeful, and with the world before him, received the long wished-for
appointment in the army of the new King of all the Spains, Don Felipe Segunde.
The brothers have eaten their last temperate meal together, in their hand-
some, though not very comfortable, lodging at Alcala. Juan pushes away the
wine-cup that Carlos would fain have refilled, and toys absently with the rind of
a melon. ”Carlos,” he says, without looking his brother in the face, ”remember
that thing of which we spoke;” adding in lower and more earnest tones, ”and so
may God remember thee.”
”Surely, brother. You have, however, little to fear.”
”Little to fear!” and there was the old quick flash in the dark eyes. ”Because,
forsooth, to spare my aunt’s selfishness and my cousin’s vanity, she must not be
seen at dance, or theatre, or bull-feast? It is enough for her to show her face on
the Alameda or at mass to raise me up a host of rivals.”
”Still, my uncle favours you; and Doña Beatriz herself will not be found of
a different mind when you come home with your promotion and your glory, as
you will, my Ruy!”
”Then, brother, watch thou in my absence, and fail not to speak the right
word at the right moment, as thou canst so well. So shall I hold myself at ease,
and give my whole mind to the noble task of breaking the heads of all the enemies
of my liege lord the king.”
Then, rising from the table, he girt on his new Toledo sword with its em-
broidered belt, threw over his shoulders his short scarlet cloak, and flung a gay
velvet montero over his rich black curls. Don Carlos went out with him, and
mounting the horses a lad from their country-home held in readiness, they rode
together down the street and through the gate of Alcala Don Juan followed by
xxii

many an admiring gaze, and many a hearty ”Vaya con Dios,”[#] from his late
companions.

[#] Go with God.

V.
Don Carlos forgets Himself

”A fair face and a tender voice had made me mad and blind.”–E. B. Browning

Don Carlos Alvarez found Alcala, after his brother’s departure, insupportably
dull; moreover, he had now almost finished his brilliant university career. As
soon, therefore, as he could, he took his degree as Licentiate of Theology. He
then wrote to inform his uncle of the fact; adding that he would be glad to spend
part of the interval that must elapse before his ordination at Seville, where he
might attend the lectures of the celebrated Fray Constantino Ponce de la Fuente,
Professor of Divinity in the College of Doctrine in that city. But, in fact, a desire
to fulfil his brother’s last charge weighed more with him than an eagerness for
further instruction; especially as rumours that his watchfulness was not unnec-
essary had reached his ears at Alcala.
He received a prompt and kind invitation from his uncle to make his house
his home for as long a period as he might desire. Now, although Don Manuel was
highly pleased with the genius and industry of his younger nephew, the hospi-
tality he extended to him was not altogether disinterested. He thought Carlos
capable of rendering what he deemed an essential service to a member of his
own family.
That family consisted of a beautiful, gay, frivolous wife, three sons, two
daughters, and his wife’s orphan niece, Doña Beatriz de Lavella. The two elder
sons were cast in their father’s mould; which, to speak truth, was rather that of
a merchant than of a cavalier. Had he been born of simple parents in the flats
of Holland or the back streets of London, a vulgar Hans or Thomas, his tastes
and capabilities might have brought him honest wealth. But since he had the
misfortune to be Don Manuel Alvarez, of the bluest blood in Spain, he was taught
 xxiii

to look on industry as ineffably degrading, and trade and commerce scarcely less
so. Only one species of trade, one kind of commerce, was open to the needy
and avaricious, but proud grandee. Unhappily it was almost the only kind that is
really degrading–the traffic in public money, in places, and in taxes. ”A sweeping
rain leaving no food,” such traffic was, in truth. The Government was defrauded;
the people, especially the poorer classes, were cruelly oppressed. No one was
enriched except the greedy jobber, whose birth rendered him infinitely too proud
to work, but by no means too proud to cheat and steal.
Don Manuel the younger, and Don Balthazar Alvarez, were ready and long-
ing to tread in their father’s footsteps. Of the two pale-faced dark-eyed sisters,
Doña Inez and Doña Sancha, one was already married, and the other had also
plans satisfactory to her parents. But the person in the family who was not of
it was the youngest son, Don Gonsalvo. He was the representative, not of his
father, but of his grandfather; as we so often see types of character reproduced in
the third generation. The first Conde de Nuera had been a wild soldier of fortune
in the Moorish wars, fierce and fiery, with strong unbridled passions. At eigh-
teen, Gonsalvo was his image; and there was scarcely any mischief possible to
a youth of fortune in a great city, into which he had not already found his way.
For two years he continued to scandalize his family, and to vex the soul of his
prudent and decorous father.
Suddenly, however, a change came over him. He reformed, became quiet
and regular in his conduct; gave himself up to study, making extraordinary
progress in a very short time; and even showed what those around him called
”a pious disposition.” But these hopeful appearances passed as suddenly and as
unaccountably as they came. After an interval of less than a year, he returned to
his former habits, and plunged even more madly than ever into all kinds of vice
and dissipation.
His father resolved to procure him a commission, and send him away to the
wars. But an accident frustrated his intentions. In those days, cavaliers of rank
frequently sought the dangerous triumphs of the bull-ring. The part of mata-
dor was performed, not, as now, by hired bravos of the lowest class, but often
by scions of the most honourable houses. Gonsalvo had more than once distin-
guished himself in the bloody arena by courage and coolness. But he tempted
his fate too often. Upon one occasion he was flung violently from his horse, and
then gored by the furious bull, whose rage had been excited to the utmost pitch
by the cruel arts usually practised. He escaped with life, but remained a crippled
invalid, apparently condemned for the rest of his days to inaction, weakness, and
suffering.
His father thought a good canonry would be a decent and comfortable pro-
vision for him, and pressed him accordingly to enter the Church. But the in-
xxiv

valided youth manifested an intense repugnance to the step; and Don Manuel
hoped that the influence of Carlos would help to overcome this feeling; believing
that he would gladly endeavour to persuade his cousin that no way of life was so
pleasant or so easy as that which he himself was about to adopt.
The good nature of Carlos led him to fall heartily into his uncle’s plans. He
really pitied his cousin, moreover, and gladly gave himself to the task of trying in
every possible way to console and amuse him. But Gonsalvo rudely repelled all
his efforts. In his eyes the destined priest was half a woman, with no knowledge
of a man’s aims or a man’s passions, and consequently no right to speak of them.
”Turn priest!” he said to him one day; ”I have as good a mind to turn Turk.
Nay, cousin, I am not pious–you may present my orisons to Our Lady with your
own, if it so please you. Perhaps she may attend to them better than to those I
offered before entering the bull-ring on that unlucky day of St. Thomas.”
Carlos, though not particularly devout, was shocked by this language.
”Take care, cousin,” he said; ”your words sound rather like blasphemy.”
”And yours sound like the words of what you are, half a priest already,”
retorted Gonsalvo. ”It is ever the priest’s cry, if you displease him, ’Open heresy!’
’Rank blasphemy!’ And next, ’the Holy Office, and a yellow Sanbenito.’ I marvel
it did not occur to your sanctity to menace me with that.”
The gentle-tempered Carlos did not answer; a forbearance which further
exasperated Gonsalvo, who hated nothing so much as being, on account of his
infirmities, borne with like a woman or a child. ”But the saints help the Church-
men,” he went on ironically. ”Good simple souls, they do not know even their
own business! Else they would smell heresy close enough at hand. What doc-
trine does your Fray Constantino preach in the great Church every feast-day,
since they made him canon-magistral?”
”The most orthodox and Catholic doctrine, and no other,” said Carlos,
roused, in his turn, by the attack upon his teacher; though he did not greatly
care for his instructions, which turned principally upon subjects about which he
had learned little or nothing in the schools. ”But to hear thee discuss doctrine is
to hear a blind man talking of colours.”
”If I be the blind man talking of colours, thou art the deaf prating of music,”
retorted his cousin. ”Come and tell me, if thou canst, what are these doctrines
of thy Fray Constantino; and wherein they differ from the Lutheran heresy? I
wager my gold chain and medal against thy new velvet cloak, that thou wouldst
fall thyself into as many heresies by the way as there are nuts in Barcelona.”
Allowing for Gonsalvo’s angry exaggeration, there was some truth in his
assertion. Once out of the region of dialectic subtleties, the champion of the
schools would have become weak as another man. And he could not have ex-
pounded Fray Constantino’s preaching;–because he did not understand it.
 xxv

”What, cousin!” he exclaimed, affronted in his tenderest part, his reputation

as a theological scholar. ”Dost thou take me for a barefooted friar or a village
cura? Me, who only two months ago was crowned victor in a debate upon the
doctrines taught by Raymondus Lullius!”
But whatever chagrin Carlos may have felt at finding himself utterly unable
to influence Gonsalvo, was soon effectually banished by the delight with which
he watched the success of his diplomacy with Doña Beatriz.
Beatriz was almost a child in years, and entirely a child in mind and charac-
ter. Hitherto, she had been studiously kept in the background, lest her brilliant
beauty should throw her cousins into the shade. Indeed, she would probably
have been consigned to a convent, had not her portion been too small to furnish
the donative usually bestowed by the friends of a novice upon any really aristo-
cratic establishment. ”And pity would it have been,” thought Carlos, ”that so fair
a flower should wither in a convent garden.”
He made the most of the limited opportunities of intercourse which the
ceremonious manners of the time and country afforded, even to inmates of the
same house. He would stand beside her chair, and watch the quick flush mount
to her olive, delicately-rounded cheek, as he talked eloquently of the absent Juan.
He was never tired of relating stories of Juan’s prowess, Juan’s generosity. In the
last duel he fought, for instance, the ball had passed through his cap and grazed
his head. But he only smiled, and re-arranged his locks, remarking, while he did
so, that with the addition of a gold chain and medal, the spoiled cap would be as
good, or better than ever. Then he would dilate on his kindness to the vanquished;
rejoicing in the effect produced, as a tribute as well to his own eloquence as to his
brother’s merit. The occupation was too fascinating not to be resorted to once
and again, even had he not persuaded himself that he was fulfilling a sacred duty.
Moreover, he soon discovered that the bright dark eyes which were begin-
ning to visit him nightly in his dreams, were pining all day for a sight of that gay
world from which their owner was jealously and selfishly excluded. So he man-
aged to procure for Doña Beatriz many a pleasure of the kind she most valued.
He prevailed upon his aunt and cousins to bring her with them to places of public
resort; and then he was always at hand, with the reverence of a loyal cavalier, and
the freedom of a destined priest, to render her every quiet unobtrusive service in
his power. At the theatre, at the dance, at the numerous Church ceremonies, on
the promenade, Doña Beatriz was his especial charge.
Amidst such occupations, pleasant weeks and months glided by almost un-
noticed by him. Never before had he been so happy. ”Alcala was well enough,”
he thought; ”but Seville is a thousand times better. All my life heretofore seems
to me only like a dream, now I am awake.”
Alas! he was not awake, but wrapped in a deep sleep, and cradling a bright
xxvi

delusive vision. As yet he was not even ”as those that dream, and know the while
they dream.” His slumber was too profound even for this dim half-consciousness.
No one suspected, any more than he suspected himself, the enchantment
that was stealing over him. But every one remarked his frank, genial manners,
his cheerfulness, his good looks. Naturally, the name of Juan dropped gradually
more and more out of his conversation; as at the same time the thought of Juan
faded from his mind. His studies, too, were neglected; his attendance upon the
lectures of Fray Constantino became little more than a formality; while ”receiving
Orders” seemed a remote if not an uncertain contingency. In fact, he lived in the
present, not caring to look either at the past or the future.
In the very midst of his intoxication, a slight incident affected him for a
moment with such a chill as we feel when, on a warm spring day, the sun passes
suddenly behind a cloud.
His cousin, Doña Inez, had been married more than a year to a wealthy
gentleman of Seville, Don Garçia Ramirez. Carlos, calling one morning at the
lady’s house with some unimportant message from Doña Beatriz, found her in
great trouble on account of the sudden illness of her babe.
”Shall I go and fetch a physician?” he asked, knowing well that Spanish ser-
vants can never be depended upon to make haste, however great the emergency
may be.
”You will do a great kindness, amigo mio,” said the anxious young mother.
”But which shall I summon?” asked Carlos. ”Our family physician, or Don
Garçia’s?”
”Don Garçia’s, by all means,–Dr. Cristobal Losada. I would not give a green
fig for any other in Seville. Do you know his dwelling?”
”Yes. But should he be absent or engaged?”
”I must have him. Him, and no other. Once before he saved my darling’s
life. And if my poor brother would but consult him, it might fare better with him.
Go quickly, cousin, and fetch him, in Heaven’s name.”
Carlos lost no time in complying; but on reaching the dwelling of the physi-
cian, found that though the hour was early he had already gone forth. After leav-
ing a message, he went to visit a friend in the Triana suburb. He passed close by
the Cathedral, with its hundred pinnacles, and that wonder of beauty, the old
Moorish Giralda, soaring far up above it into the clear southern sky. It occurred
to him that a few Aves said within for the infant’s recovery would be both a ben-
efit to the child and a comfort to the mother. So he entered, and was making his
way to a gaudy tinselled Virgin and Babe, when, happening to glance towards a
different part of the building, his eyes rested on the physician, with whose person
he was well acquainted, as he had often noticed him amongst Fray Constantino’s
hearers. Losada was now pacing up and down one of the side aisles, in company
 xxvii

with a gentleman of very distinguished appearance.

As Carlos drew nearer, it occurred to him that he had never seen this per-
sonage in any place of public resort, and for this reason, as well as from certain
slight indications in his dress of fashions current in the north of Spain, he gath-
ered that he was a stranger in Seville, who might be visiting the Cathedral from
motives of curiosity. Before he came up the two men paused in their walk, and
turning their backs to him, stood gazing thoughtfully at the hideous row of red
and yellow Sanbenitos, or penitential garments, that hung above them.
”Surely,” thought Carlos, ”they might find better objects of attention than
these ugly memorials of sin and shame, which bear witness that their late mis-
erable wearers–Jews, Moors, blasphemers, or sorcerers,–have ended their dreary
lives of penance, if not of penitence.”
The attention of the stranger seemed to be particularly attracted by one
of them, the largest of all. Indeed, Carlos himself had been struck by its unusual
size; and upon one occasion he had even had the curiosity to read the inscription,
which he remembered because it contained Juan’s favourite name. Rodrigo. It
was this: ”Rodrigo Valer, a citizen of Lebrixa and Seville; an apostate and false
apostle, who pretended to be sent from God.” And now, as he approached with
light though hasty footsteps, he distinctly heard Dr. Cristobal Losada, still look-
ing at the Sanbenito, say to his companion, ”Yes, señor; and also the Conde de
Nuera, Don Juan Alvarez.”
Don Juan Alvarez! What possible tie could link his father’s name with the
hideous thing they were gazing at? And what could the physician know about
him of whom his own children knew so little? Carlos stood amazed, and pale
with sudden emotion.
And thus the physician saw him, happening to turn at that moment. Had
he not exerted all his presence of mind (and he possessed a great deal), he would
himself have started visibly. The unexpected appearance of the person of whom
we speak is in itself disconcerting; but it deserves another name when we are
saying that of him or his which, if overheard, might endanger life, or what is
more precious still than life. Losada was equal to the occasion, however. The
usual greetings having been exchanged, he asked quietly whether Señor Don
Carlos had come in search of him, and hoped that he did not owe the honour to
any indisposition in his worship’s noble family.
Carlos felt it rather a relief, under the circumstances, to have to say that his
cousin’s babe was alarmingly ill. ”You will do us a great favour,” he added, ”by
coming immediately. Doña Inez is very anxious.”
The physician promised compliance; and turning to his companion, re-
spectfully apologized for leaving him abruptly.
”A sick child’s claim must not be postponed,” said the stranger in reply.
xxviii

”Go, señor doctor, and God’s blessing rest on your skill.”

Carlos was struck by the noble bearing and courteous manner of the
stranger, who, in his turn, was interested by the young man’s anxiety about a
sick babe. But with only a passing glance at the other, each went his different
way, not dreaming that once again at least their paths were destined to cross.
The strange mention of his father’s name that he had overheard filled the
heart of Carlos with undefined uneasiness. He knew enough by that time to
feel his childish belief in his father’s stainless virtue a little shaken. What if a
dreadful unexplained something, linking his fate with that of a convicted heretic,
were yet to be learned? After all, the accursed arts of magic and sorcery were
not so far removed from the alchemist’s more legitimate labours, that a rash or
presumptuous student might not very easily slide from one into the other. He had
reason to believe that his father had played with alchemy, if he had not seriously
devoted himself to its study. Nay, the thought had sometimes flashed unbidden
across his mind that the ”El Dorado” found might after all have been no other than
the philosopher’s stone. For he who has attained the power of producing gold at
will may surely be said, without any stretch of metaphor, to have discovered a
golden country. But at this period of his life the personal feelings of Carlos were
so keen and absorbing that almost everything, consciously or unconsciously, was
referred to them. And thus it was that an intense wish sprang up in his heart,
that his father’s secret might have descended to him.
Vain wish! The gold he needed or desired must be procured from a less in-
accessible region than El Dorado, and without the aid of the philosopher’s stone.

VI.
Don Carlos forgets Himself still further

”The not so very false, as falsehood goes,–

The spinning out and drawing fine, you know;
Really mere novel-writing, of a sort,
Acting, improvising, make-believe,–
Surely not downright cheatery!”–R. Browning.

It cost Carlos some time and trouble to drive away the haunting thoughts
 xxix

which Losada’s words had awakened. But he succeeded at length; or perhaps

it would be more truthful to say the bright eyes and witching smiles of Doña
Beatrix accomplished the work for him.
Every dream, however, must have a waking. Sometimes a slight sound,
ludicrously trivial in its cause, dispels a slumber fraught with wondrous visions,
in which we have been playing the part of kings and emperors.
”Nephew Don Carlos,” said Don Manuel one day, ”is it not time you thought
of shaving your head? You are learned enough for your Orders long ago, and ’in
a plentiful house supper is soon dressed.’”
”True, señor my uncle,” murmured Carlos, looking suddenly aghast. ”But I
am under the canonical age.”
”But you can get a dispensation.”
”Why such haste? There is time yet and to spare.”
”That is not so sure. I hear the cura of San Lucar has one foot in the grave.
The living is a good one, and I think I know where to go for it. So take care you
lose not a heifer for want of a halter to hold it by.”
With these words on his lips, Don Manuel went out. At the same moment
Gonsalvo, who lay listlessly on a sofa at one end of the room, or rather court,
reading ”Lazarillo de Tormes,” the first Spanish novel, burst into a loud paroxysm
of laughter.
”What may be the theme of your merriment?” asked Carlos, turning his
large dreamy eyes languidly towards him.
”Yourself, amigo mio. You would make the stone saints of the Cathedral
laugh on their pedestals. There you stand, pale as marble, a living image of de-
spair. Come, rouse yourself! What do you mean to do? Will you take what you
wish, or let your chance slip by, and then sit and weep because you have it not?
Will you be a priest or a man? Make your choice this hour, for one you must be,
and both you cannot be.”
Carlos answered him not; in truth, he dared not answer him. Every word
was the voice of his own heart; perhaps it was also, though he knew it not, the
voice of the great tempter. He withdrew to his chamber, and barred and bolted
himself in it. This was the first time in his life that solitude was a necessity to
him. His uncle’s words had brought with them a terrible revelation. He knew
himself now too well; he knew what he loved, what he desired, or rather what he
hungered and thirsted for with agonizing intensity. No; never the priest’s frock
for him. He must call Doña Beatriz de Lavella his–his before God’s altar–or die.
Then came a thought, stinging him with sharp, sudden pain. It was a
thought that should have come to him long ago,–”Juan!” And with the name,
affection, memory, conscience, rose up together within him to combat the mad
resolve of his passion.
xxx

Fiery passions slumbered in the heart of Carlos. Such art sometimes found
united with a gentle temper, a weak will, and sensitive nerves. Woe to their
possessor when they are aroused in their strength!
Had Carlos been a plain soldier, like the brother he was tempted to betray,
it is possible he might have come forth from this terrible conflict still holding fast
his honour and his brotherly affection. It was his priestly training that turned the
scale. He had been taught that simple truth between man and man was a thing
of little consequence. He had been taught the art of making a hundred clever,
plausible excuses for whatever he saw best to do. He had been taught, in short,
every species of sophistry by which, to the eyes of others, and to his own also,
wrong might be made to seem right, and black to appear the purest white.
His subtle imagination forged in the fire of his kindled passions chains of
reasoning in which no skill could detect a flaw. Juan had never loved as he did;
Juan would not care; probably by this time he had forgotten Doña Beatriz. ”Be-
sides,” the tempter whispered furtively within him, ”he might never return at all;
he might die in battle.” But Carlos was not yet sunk so low as to give ear for a sin-
gle instant to this wicked whisper; though certainly he could not henceforth look
for his brother’s return with the joy with which he had been wont to anticipate
that event. But, in any case, Beatriz herself should be the judge between them.
And he told himself that he knew (how did he know it?) that Beatriz preferred
him. Then it would be only right and kind to prepare Juan for an inevitable dis-
appointment. This he could easily do. Letters, carefully written, might gradually
suggest to his brother that Beatriz had other views; and he knew Juan’s pride and
his fiery temper well enough to calculate that if his jealousy were once aroused,
these would soon accomplish the rest.
Ere we, who have been taught from our cradles to ”speak the truth from the
heart,” turn with loathing from the wiles of Carlos Alvarez, we ought to remember
that he was a Spaniard–one of a nation whose genius and passion is for intrigue.
He was also a Spaniard of the sixteenth century; but, above all, he was a Spanish
Catholic, educated for the priesthood.
The ability with which he laid his plans, and the enjoyment which its exer-
cise gave him, served in itself to blind him to the treachery and ingratitude upon
which those plans were founded.
He sought an interview with Fray Constantino, and implored from him
a letter of recommendation to the imperial recluse at San Yuste, whose chaplain
and personal favourite the canon-magistral had been. But that eloquent preacher,
though warm-hearted and generous to a fault, hesitated to grant the request. He
represented to Carlos that His Imperial Majesty did not choose his retreat to
be invaded by applicants for favours, and that the journey to San Yuste would
therefore be, in all probability, worse than useless. Carlos answered that he had
 xxxi

fully weighed the difficulties of the case; but that if the line of conduct he adopted
seemed peculiar, his circumstances were so also. He believed that his father (who
died before his birth) had enjoyed the special regard of His Imperial Majesty, and
he hoped that, for his sake, he might now be willing to show him some kindness.
At all events, he was sure of an introduction to his presence through his mayor-
domo, Don Luis Quixada, lord of Villagarçia, who was a friend of their house.
What he desired to obtain, through the kindness of His Imperial Majesty, was a
Latin secretaryship, or some similar office, at the court of the new king, where
his knowledge of Latin, and the talents he hoped he possessed, might stand him
in good stead, and enable him to support, though with modesty, the station to
which his birth entitled him. For, although already a licentiate of theology, and
with good prospects in the Church, he did not wish to take orders, as he had
thoughts of marrying.
Fray Constantino felt a sympathy with the young man; and perhaps the
rather because, if report speaks true, he had once been himself in a somewhat
similar position. So he compromised matters by giving him a general letter of
recommendation, in which he spoke of his talents and his blameless manners
as warmly as he could, from the experience of the nine or ten months during
which he had been acquainted with him. And although the attention paid by
Carlos to his instructions had been slight, and of late almost perfunctory, his
great natural intelligence had enabled him to stand his ground more creditably
than many far more diligent students. The Fray’s letter Carlos thankfully added
to the numerous laudatory epistles from the doctors and professors of Alcala that
he already had in his possession.
All these he enclosed in a cedar box, which he carefully locked, and con-
signed in its turn to a travelling portmanteau, along with a fair stock of wearing
apparel, sufficiently rich in material to suit his rank, but modest in colour and
fashion. He then informed his uncle that before he took Orders it would be nec-
essary for him, in his brother’s absence, to take a journey to their little estate,
and set its concerns in order.
His uncle, suspecting nothing, approved his plan, and insisted on providing
him with the attendance of an armed guard to Nuera, whither he really intended
to go in the first instance.

VII.
The Desengãno
xxxii

”And I should evermore be vexed with thee

In vacant robe, or hanging ornament,
Or ghostly foot-fall lingering on the stair.”–Tennyson

The journey from the city of oranges to the green slopes of the Sierra Morena

ought to have been a delightful one to Don Carlos Alvarez. It was certainly bright
with hope. He scarcely harboured a doubt of the ultimate success of his plans,
and the consequent attainment of all his wishes. Already he seemed to feel the
soft hand of Doña Beatriz in his, and to stand by her side before the high altar of
the great Cathedral.
And yet, as days passed on, the brightness within grew fainter, and an ac-
knowledged shadow, ever deepening, began to take its place. At last he drew near
his home, and rode through the little grove of cork-trees where he and Juan had
played as children. When last they were there together the autumn winds were
strewing the leaves, all dim and discoloured, about their paths. Now he looked
through the fresh green foliage at the deep intense blue of the summer sky. But,
though scarcely more than twenty, he felt at that moment old and worn, and
wished back the time of his boyish sports with his brother. Never again could he
feel quite happy with Juan.
Soon, however, his sorrowful fancies were put to flight by the joyous greet-
ing of the hounds, who rushed with much clamour from the castle-yard to wel-
come him. There they were, all of them–Pedro, Zina, Pepe, Grullo, Butron–it was
Juan who had named them, every one. And there, at the gate, stood Diego and
Dolores, ready to give him joyful welcome. Throwing himself from his horse,
he shook hands with these faithful old retainers, and answered their kindly but
respectful inquiries both for himself and Señor Don Juan. Then, having caressed
the dogs, inquired for each of the under-servants by name, and given orders for
the due entertainment of his guard, he passed on slowly into the great deserted
hall.
His arrival being unexpected, he merely surrendered his travelling cloak
into the hands of Diego, and sat down to wait patiently while the servants, always
dilatory, prepared for him suitable accommodation. Dolores soon appeared with
a flask of wine and some bread and grapes; but this was only a merienda, or slight
afternoon luncheon, which she laid before her young master until she could make
ready a supper fit for him to partake of. Carlos spent half an hour listening to
her tidings of the household and the village, and felt sorry when she quitted the
room and left him to his own reflections.
Every object on which his eyes rested reminded him of his brother. There
hung the cross-bow with which, in old days, Juan had made such vigorous war
 xxxiii

on the rooks and the sparrows. There lay the foils and the canes with which they
had so often fenced and played; Juan, in his unquestioned superiority, usually so
patient with the younger brother’s timidity and awkwardness. And upon that
bench he had carved, with a hunting-knife, his name in full, adding the title that
had expired with his father, ”Conde de Nuera.”
The memories these things recalled were becoming intrusive: he would
fain shake them off. Gladly would he have had recourse to his favourite pastime
of reading, but there was not a book in the castle, to his knowledge, except the
breviary he had brought with him. For lack of more congenial occupation, he
went out at last to the stable to look at the horses, and to talk to those who were
grooming and feeding them.
Later in the evening Dolores told him that supper was ready, adding that
she had laid it in the small inner room, which she thought Señor Don Carlos
would find more comfortable than the great hall.
That inner room was, even more than the hall, haunted by the shadowy
presence of Juan. But it was usually daylight when the brothers were there to-
gether. Now, a tapestry curtain shaded the window, and a silver lamp shed its
light on the well-spread table with its snowy drapery, and cover laid for one.
A lonely meal, however luxurious, is always apt to be somewhat dreary; it
seems a provision for the lowest wants of our nature, and nothing more. Carlos
sought to escape from the depressing influence by giving wings to his imagi-
nation, and dreaming of the time when wealth enough to repair and refurnish
that half-ruinous old homestead might be his. He pleased himself with pictures
of the long tables in the great hall, groaning beneath the weight of a bountiful
provision for a merry company of guests, upon whom the sweet face of Doña
Beatriz might beam a welcome. But how idle such fancies! The castle, after all,
was Juan’s, not his. Unless, indeed, more difficulties than one should be solved
by Juan’s death upon some French or Flemish battle-field. This thought he could
not bear to entertain. Grown suddenly sick at heart, he pushed aside his plate
of stewed pigeon, and, regardless of the feelings of Dolores, sent away untasted
her dessert of sweet butter-cakes dipped in honey. He was weary, he said, and
he would go to rest at once.
It was long before sleep would visit his eyelids; and when at last it came,
his brother’s dark reproachful eyes haunted him still. At daybreak he awoke with
a start from a feverish dream that Juan, all pale and ghostlike, had come to his
bedside, and laying his hand on his arm, said solemnly, ”I claim the jewel I left
thee in trust.”
Further sleep was impossible. He rose, and wandered out into the fresh air.
As yet no one was astir. Fair and sweet was all that met his gaze: the faint pearly
light, the first blush of dawn in the quiet sky, the silvery dew that bathed his
xxxiv

footsteps. But the storm within raged more fiercely for the calm without. There
was first an agonizing struggle to repress the rising thought, ”Better, after all,
not to do this thing.” But, in spite of his passionate efforts, the thought gained a
hearing, it seemed to cry aloud within him, ”Better, after all, not to betray Juan!”
”And give up Beatriz forever? For ever!” he repeated over and over again, beating
it

”In upon his weary brain,

As though it were the burden of a song.”

He had climbed, almost unawares, to the top of a rocky hill; and now he

stood, looking around him at the prospect, just as if he saw it. In truth, he saw
nothing, felt nothing outward, until at last a misty mountain rain swept in his
face, refreshing his burning brow with a touch as of cool fingers.
Then he descended mechanically. Exchanging salutations (as if nothing
were amiss with him) with the milk-maid and the wood-boy, he crossed the open
courtyard and re-entered the hall. There Dolores, and a girl who worked under
her, were already busy, so he passed by them into the inner room.
Its darkness seemed to stifle him; with hasty hand he drew aside the heavy
tapestry curtain. As he did so something caught his eye. For the hundredth time
he re-read the mystic inscription on the glass:

”El Dorado
Yo hé trovado.”

And, as an infant’s touch may open a sluice that lets in the mighty ocean, those
simple words broke up the fountains of the great deep within. He gave full course
to the emotions they awakened. Again he heard Juan’s voice repeat them; again
he saw Juan’s deep earnest eyes look into his; not now reproachfully, but with full
unshaken trust, as in the old days when first he said, ”We will go forth together
and find our father.”
”Juan–brother!” he cried aloud, ”I will never wrong thee, so help me God!”
At that moment the morning sun, having scattered the mists with the glory of its
rising, sent one of its early beams to kiss the handwriting on the window-pane.
”Old token for good,” thought Carlos, whose imaginative nature could play with
fancies even in the hours of supreme emotion. ”And true still even yet. Only the
good is all for Juan; for me–nothing but despair.”
And so Don Carlos found his ”desengãno,” or disenchantment, and it was
a very thorough one.
 xxxv

Body and mind were well-nigh exhausted with the violence of the struggle.
Perhaps this was fortunate, in so far that it won for the decision of his better
nature a more rapid and easy acceptance. In a sense and for a season any decision
was welcome to the weary, tempest-tossed soul.
It was afterwards that he asked himself how were long years to be dragged
on without the face that was the joy of his heart and the life of his life? How was
he to bear the never-ending pain, the aching loneliness, of such a lot? Better to
die at once than to endure this slow, living death. He knew well that it was not in
his nature to point the pistol or the dagger at his own breast. But he might pine
away and die silently–as many thousands die–of blighted hopes and a ruined life.
Or–and this was more likely, perhaps–as time passed on he might grow dead and
hard in soul; until at last he would become a dry, cold, mechanical mass-priest,
mumbling the Church’s Latin with thin, bloodless lips, a keen eye to his dues,
and a heart that might serve for a Church relic, so much faith would it require to
believe that it had been warm and living once.
Still, laudably anxious to provide against possible future waverings of the
decision so painfully attained, he wrote informing his uncle of his safe arrival;
adding that he had fully made up his mind to take Orders at Christmas, but that
he found it advisable to remain in his present quarters for a month or two. He
at once dispatched two of the men-at-arms with the letter; and much was the
thrifty Don Manuel surprised that his nephew should spend a handful of silver
reals in order to inform him of what he knew already.
Gloomily the day wore on. The instinctive reserve of a sensitive nature
made Carlos talk to the servants, receive the accounts, inspect the kine and
sheep–do everything, in short, except eat and drink–as he would have done if
a great sorrow had not all the time been crushing his heart. It is true that Do-
lores, who loved him as her own son, was not deceived. It was for no trivial
cause that the young master was pale as a corpse, restless and irritable, talking
hurriedly by fitful snatches, and then relapsing into moody silence. But Dolores
was a prudent woman, as well as a loving and faithful one; therefore she held her
peace, and bided her time.
But Carlos noticed one effort she made to console him. Coming in towards
evening from a consultation with Diego about some cork-trees which a Morisco
merchantman wished to purchase and cut down, he saw upon his table a care-
fully sealed wine-flask, with a cup beside it. He knew whence it came. His father
had left in the cellar a small quantity of choice wine of Xeres; and this relic of
more prosperous times being, like most of their other possessions, in the care
of Dolores, was only produced very sparingly, and on rare occasions. But she
evidently thought ”Señor Don Carlos” needed it now. Touched by her watchful,
unobtrusive affection, he would have gratified her by drinking; but he had a pe-
xxxvi

culiar dislike to drinking alone, while he knew he would only render his sanity
doubtful by inviting either her or Diego to share the luxurious beverage. So he
put it aside for the present, and drew towards him a sheet of figures, an inkhorn,
and a pen. He could not work, however. With the silence and solitude, his great
grief came back upon him again. But nature all this time had been silently work-
ing for him. His despair was giving way to a more violent but less bitter sorrow.
Tears came now: a long, passionate fit of weeping relieved his aching heart. Since
his early childhood he had not wept thus.
An approaching footstep recalled him to himself. He rose with haste and
shame, and stood beside the window, hoping that his position and the waning
light might together shield him from observation. It was only Dolores.
”Señor,” she said, entering somewhat hastily, ”will it please you to see to
those men of Seville that came with your Excellency? They are insulting a poor
little muleteer, and threatening to rob his packages.”
Yanguesian carriers and other muleteers, bringing goods across the Sierra
Morena from the towns of La Mancha to those of Andalusia, often passed by
the castle, and sometimes received hospitality there. Carlos rose at once at the
summons, saying to Dolores–
”Where is the boy?”
”He is not a boy, señor, he is a man; a very little man, but with a greater
spirit, if I mistake not, than some twice his size.”
It was true enough. On the green plot at the back of the castle, beside which
the mountain pathway led, there were gathered the ten or twelve rough Seville
pikemen, taken from the lowest of the population, and most of them of Moorish
blood. In their midst, beside the foremost of his three mules, with one arm thrown
round her neck and the other raised to give effect by animated gestures to his
eager oratory, stood the muleteer. He was a very short, spare, active-looking
man, clad from head to foot in chestnut-coloured leather. His mules were well
laden; each with three large alforjas, one at each side and one laid across the
neck. But they were evidently well fed and cared for also; and they presented
a gay appearance, with their adornments of bright-coloured worsted tassels and
tiny bells.
”You know, my friends,” the muleteer was saying, as Carlos came within
hearing, ”an arriero’s alforjas[#] are like a soldier’s colours,–it stands him upon
his honour to guard them inviolate. No, no! Ask him for aught else–his purse,
his blood–they are at your service; but never touch his colours, if you care for a
long life.”

[#] Arriero, muleteer; alforjas, bags.

 xxxvii

”My honest friend, your colours, as you call them, shall be safe here,” said Carlos,
kindly.
The muleteer turned towards him a good-humoured, intelligent face, and,
bowing low, thanked him heartily.
”What is your name?” asked Carlos; ”and whence do you come?”
”I am Juliano; Juliano el Chico (Julian the Little) men generally call me–
since, as your Excellency sees, I am not very great. And I come last from Toledo.”
”Indeed! And what wares do you carry?”
”Some matters, small in bulk, yet costly, which I am bringing for a Seville
merchant–Medel de Espinosa by name, if your worship has heard of him? I have
mirrors, for example, of a new kind; excellent in workmanship, and true as steel,
as well they may be.”
”I know the shop of Espinosa well. I have been much in Seville,” said Carlos,
with a sudden pang, caused by the recollection of the many pretty trifles that he
had purchased there for Doña Beatrix. ”But follow me, my friend, and a good
supper shall make you amends for the rudeness of these fellows.–Andres, take
the best care thou canst of his mules; ’twill be only fair penance for thy sin in
molesting their owner.”
”A hundred thousand thanks, señor. Still, with your worship’s good leave,
and no offence to friend Andres, I had rather look to the beasts myself. We are
old companions; they know my ways, and I know theirs.”
”As you please, my good fellow. Andres will show you the stable, and I
shall tell my mayor-domo to see that you lack nothing.”
”Again I render to your Excellency my poor but hearty thanks.”
Carlos went in, gave the necessary directions to Diego, and then returned
to his solitary chamber.

VIII.
The Muleteer

”Are ye resigned that they be spent

In such world’s help? The spirits bent
Their awful brows, and said, ’Content!’
xxxviii

”Content! It sounded like Amen

Said by a choir of mourning men;
An affirmation full of pain

”And patience,–ay, of glorying.

And adoration, as a king
Might seal an oath for governing.”–E. B. Browning

When Carlos stood once more face to face with his sorrow–as he did as soon

as he had closed the door–he found that it had somewhat changed its aspect. A
trouble often does this when some interruption from the outer world makes us
part company with it for a little while. We find on our return that it has developed
quite a new phase, and seldom a more hopeful one.
It now entered the mind of Carlos, for the first time, that he had been acting
very basely towards his brother. Not only had he planned and intended a trea-
son, but by endeavouring to engage the affections of Doña Beatriz, he had actu-
ally committed one. Heaven grant it might not prove irreparable! Though the
time that had passed since his better self gained the victory was only measured
by hours, it represented to him a much longer period. Already it enabled him
to look upon what had gone before from the vantage-ground that some degree
of distance gives. He now beheld in true, perhaps even in exaggerated colours,
the meanness and the treachery of his conduct. He, who prided himself upon
the nobility of his nature matching that of his birth–he, Don Carlos Alvarez de
Santillanos y Meñaya, the gentleman of stainless manners, of reputation untar-
nished by a single blot–he, who had never yet been ashamed of anything,–in his
solitude he blushed and covered his face in shame, as the villany he had planned
rose up before his mind. It would have broken his heart to be scorned by any
man; and was it not worse a thousand-fold to be thus scorned by himself! He
thought even more of the meanness of his plan than of its treachery. Of its sin
he did not think at all. Sin was a theological term which he had been wont to
handle in the schools, and to toss to and fro with the other materials upon which
he showed off his dialectic skill; but it no more occurred to him to take it out of
the scholastic world and to bring it into that in which he really lived and acted,
than it did to talk Latin to Diego, or softly to whisper quotations from Thomas
Aquinas into the ear of Doña Beatriz between the pauses of the dance.
Scarcely any consideration, however, could have made him more miserable
than he was. Past and future–all alike seemed dreary. Not a happy memory,
not a cheering anticipation could he find to comfort him. He was as one who
goes forth to face the driving storm of a wintry night: not strong in hope and
 xxxix

courage–a warm hearth behind him, and before him the pleasant starry glimmer
that tells of another soon to be reached–but chilled, weary, forlorn, the wind
whistling through thin garments, and nothing to meet his eye but the bare, bleak,
shelterless moor stretching far out into the distance.
He sat long, too crushed in heart even to finish his slight, unimportant task.
Sometimes he drew towards him the sheet of figures, and for a moment or two
tried to fix his attention upon it; but soon he would push it away again, or make
aimless dots and circles on its margin. While thus engaged, he heard a cheery
and not unmelodious voice chanting a fragment of song in some foreign tongue.
Listening more attentively, he believed the words were French, and supposed the
singer must be his humble guest, the muleteer, on his way to the stable to take a
last look at the beloved companions of his toils before he lay down to rest. The
man had probably exercised his vocation at some former period in the passes of
the Pyrenees, and had thus acquired some knowledge of French.
Half an hour’s talk with any one seemed to Carlos at that moment a most
desirable diversion from the gloom of his own thoughts. He might converse with
this stranger when he dared not summon to his presence Diego or Dolores, be-
cause they knew and loved him well enough to discover in two minutes that
something was seriously wrong with him. He waited until he heard the voice
once more close beneath his window; then softly opening it, he called the mule-
teer. Juliano responded with ready alertness; and Carlos, going round to the door,
admitted him, and led him into his sanctum.
”I believe,” he said, ”that was a French song I heard you sing. You have been
in France, then?”
”Ay, señor; I have crossed the Pyrenees more than once. I have also been
in Switzerland.”
”You must, then, have visited many places worthy of note; and not with
your eyes shut, I think. I wish you would tell me, for pastime, the story of your
travels.”
”Willingly, señor,” said the muleteer, who, though perfectly respectful, had
an ease and independence of manner that made Carlos suspect it was not the first
time he had conversed with his superiors. ”Where shall I begin?”
”Have you ever crossed the Santillanos, or visited the Asturias?”
”No, señor. A man cannot be everywhere; ’he that rings the bells does not
walk in the procession.’ I am only master of the route from Lyons here; knowing
a little also, as I have said, of Switzerland.”
”Tell me first of Lyons, then. And be seated, my friend.”
The muleteer sat down, and began his story, telling of the places he had
seen with an intelligence that more and more engaged the attention of Carlos,
who failed not to draw out his information by many pertinent questions. As they
xl

conversed, each observed the other with gradually increasing interest. Carlos ad-
mired the muleteer’s courage and energy in the prosecution of his calling, and
enjoyed his quaint and shrewd observations. Moreover, he was struck by cer-
tain indications of a degree of education and even of refinement not usual in his
class. Especially he noticed the small, finely-formed hand, which was sometimes
in the warmth of conversation laid on the table, and which looked as if it had
been accustomed to wield some implement far more delicate than a riding-whip.
Another thing he took note of. Though Juliano’s language abounded in proverbs,
in provincialisms, in quaint and racy expressions, not a single oath escaped his
lips. ”I never saw an arriero before,” thought Carlos, ”who could get through two
sentences without half a dozen of them.”
Juliano, on the other hand, was observing his host, and with a far shrewder
and deeper insight than Carlos could have imagined. During supper he had gath-
ered from the servants that their young master was kind-hearted, gentle, easy-
tempered, and had never injured any one in his life; and knowing all this, he was
touched with genuine sympathy for the young noble, whose haggard face and
sorrowful looks told but too plainly that some great grief was pressing on his
heart.
”Your Excellency must be weary of my stories,” he said at length. ”It is time
I left you to your repose.”
And so indeed it was, for the hour was late.
”Ere you go,” said Carlos kindly, ”you shall drink a cup of wine with me.”
He had no wine at hand but the costly beverage Dolores had produced for
his own especial use. Wondering a little what Juliano would think of such a
luxurious beverage, he sought a second cup, for the proud Castilian gentleman
was too ”finely courteous” not to drink with his guest, although that guest was
only a muleteer.
Juliano, evidently a temperate man, remonstrated: ”But I have already
tasted your Excellency’s hospitality.”
”That should not hinder your drinking to my good health,” said Carlos, pro-
ducing a small hunting-cup, forgotten until now, from the pocket of his doublet.
Then filling the larger cup, he handed it to Juliano. It was a very little thing,
a trifling act of kindness. But to the last hour of his life, Carlos Alvarez thanked
God that he had put it into his heart to offer that cup of wine.
The muleteer raised it to his lips, saying earnestly, ”God grant you health
and happiness, noble señor.”
Carlos drank also, glad to relieve a painful feeling of exhaustion. As he
set down the cup, a sudden impulse prompted him to say, with a bitter smile,
”Happiness is not likely to come my way at present.”
”Nay, señor, and wherefore not? With your good leave be it spoken, you
 xli

are young, noble, amiable, with much learning and excellent parts, as they tell
me.”
”All these things may not prevent a man being very miserable,” said Carlos
frankly.
”God comfort you, señor.”
”Thanks for the good wish,” said Carlos, rather lightly, and conscious of
having already said too much. ”All men have their troubles, I suppose, but most
men contrive to live through them. So shall I, no doubt.”
”But God can comfort you,” Juliano repeated with a kind of wistful earnest-
ness.
Carlos, surprised at his manner, looked at him dreamily, but with some
curiosity.
”Señor,” said Juliano, leaning forward and speaking in a low tone full of
meaning. ”Let your worship excuse a plain man’s plain question–Señor, do you
know God?”
Carlos started visibly. Was the man mad? Certainly not; as all his previous
conversation bore witness. He was evidently a very clever, half-educated man,
who spoke with just the simplicity and unconsciousness of an intelligent child.
And now he had asked a true child’s question; one which it would exhaust a
wise man’s wisdom to answer. Thoroughly perplexed, Carlos at last determined
to take it in its easiest sense. He said, ”Yes; I have studied theology, and taken
out my licentiate’s degree at the University of Alcala.”
”If it please your worship, what may that fine word theology mean?”
”You have said so many wise things, that I marvel you know not Science
about God.”
”Then, señor, your Excellency knows about God. But is it not another thing
to know God? I know much about the Emperor Carlos, now at San Yuste; I could
tell you the story of all his campaigns. But I never saw him, still less spoke with
him. And far indeed am I from knowing him to be my friend; and so trusting him
that if my mules died, or the Alguazils seized me at Cordova for bringing over
something contraband, or other mishap befell me, I should go or send to him,
certain that he would help and save me.”
”I begin to understand you,” said Carlos; and a suspicion crossed his mind
that the muleteer was a friar in disguise. But that could scarcely be, since his
black abundant hair showed no marks of the tonsure. ”After the manner you
speak of, only great saints know God.”
”Indeed, señor! Can that be true? For I have heard that our Lord Christ”–(at
the mention of the name Carlos crossed himself, a ceremony which the muleteer
was so engrossed by his argument as to forget)–”that our Lord Christ came into
the world to make men know the Father; and that, to all that believe on him, he
xlii

truly reveals him.”

”Where did you get this strange learning?”
”It is simple learning; and yet very blessed, señor,” returned Juliano, evading
the question. ”For those who know God are happy. Whatever sorrows they have
without, within they have joy and peace.”
”You are advising me to seek peace in religion?”
It was singular certainly that a muleteer should advise him; but then this
was a very uncommon muleteer. ”And so I ought,” he added, ”since I am destined
for the Church.”
”No, señor; not to seek peace in religion, but to seek peace from God, and
in Christ who reveals him.”
”It is only the words that differ, the things are the same.”
”Again I say, with all submission to your Excellency, not so. It is Christ Jesus
himself–Christ Jesus, God and man–who alone can give the peace and happiness
for which the heart aches. Are we oppressed with sin? He says, ’Thy sins are
forgiven thee!’ Are we hungry? He is bread. Thirsty? He is living water. Weary?
He says, ’Come unto me, all ye that are weary and heavy laden, and I will give
you rest!’”
”Man! who or what are you? You are quoting the Holy Scriptures to me.
Do you then read Latin?”
”No, señor,” said the muleteer humbly, casting his eyes down to the ground.
”No?”
”No, señor; in very truth. But–”
”Well? Go on!”
Juliano looked up again, a steady light in his eyes. ”Will you promise, on
the faith of a gentleman, not to betray me?” he asked.
”Most assuredly I will not betray you.”
”I trust you, señor. I do not believe it would be possible for you to betray
one who trusted you.”
Carlos winced, and rather shrank from the muleteer’s look of hearty, honest
confidence.
”Though I cannot guess your reason for such precautions,” he said, ”I am
willing, if you wish it, to swear secrecy upon the holy crucifix.”
”It needs not, señor; your word of honour is as much as your oath. Though
I am putting my life in your hands when I tell you that I have dared to read the
words of my Lord Christ in my own tongue.”
”Are you then a heretic?” Carlos exclaimed, recoiling involuntarily, as one
who suddenly sees the plague spot on the forehead of a friend whose hand he
has been grasping.
”That depends upon your notion of a heretic, señor. Many a better man
 xliii

than I has been branded with the name. Even the great preacher Don Fray Con-
stantino, whom all the fine lords and ladies in Seville flock to hear, has often been
called heretic by his enemies.”
”I have resided in Seville, and attended Fray Constantino’s theological lec-
tures,” said Carlos.
”Then your worship knows there is not a better Christian in all the Spains.
And yet men say that he narrowly escaped a prosecution for heresy. But enough
of what men say. Let us hear what God says for once. His words cannot lead us
astray.”
”No; not the Holy Scriptures, properly expounded by learned and orthodox
doctors. But heretics put their own construction upon the sacred text, which,
moreover, they corrupt and interpolate.”
”Señor, you are a scholar; you can consult the original, and judge for your-
self how far that charge is true.”
”But I do not want to read heretic writings.”
”Nor I, señor. Yet I confess that I have read the words of my Saviour in
my own tongue, which some misinformed or ignorant persons call heresy; and
through them, to my soul’s joy, I have learned to know Him and the Father. I am
bold enough to wish the same knowledge yours, señor, that the same joy may
be yours also.” The poor man’s eye kindled, and his features, otherwise homely
enough, glowed with an enthusiasm that lent them true spiritual beauty.
Carlos was not unmoved. After a moment’s pause he said, ”If I could pro-
cure what you style God’s Word in my own tongue, I do not say that I would
refuse to read it. Should I discover any heretical mistranslation or interpolation,
I could blot out the passage; or, if necessary, burn the book.”
”I can place in your hands this very hour the New Testament of our Saviour
Christ, lately translated into Castilian by Juan Perez, a learned man, well ac-
quainted with the Greek.”
”What! have you got it with you? In God’s name bring it then; and at least
I will look at it.”
”Be it truly in God’s name, señor,” said Juliano, as he left the room.
During his absence Carlos pondered upon this singular adventure.
Throughout his lengthened conversation with him, he had discerned no marks
of heresy in the muleteer, except his possession of the Spanish New Testament.
And being very proud of his dialectic acuteness, he thought he should certainly
have discovered such had they existed. ”He had need to be a clever heretic that
would circumvent me,” he said, with the vanity of a young and successful scholar.
Moreover, his ten months’ attendance on the lectures of Fray Constantino had,
unconsciously to himself, somewhat imbued his mind with liberal ideas. He could
have read the Vulgate at Alcala if he had cared to do so (only he never had); where
xliv

then could be the harm of glancing, out of mere curiosity, at a Spanish translation
from the same original?
He regarded the New Testament in the light of some very dangerous,
though effective, weapon of the explosive kind; likely to overwhelm with terri-
ble destruction the careless or ignorant meddler with its intricacies, and therefore
wisely forbidden by the authorities; though in able and scientific hands, such as
his own, it might be harmless and even useful.
But it was a very different matter for the poor man who brought it to him.
Was he, after all, a madman? Or was he a heretic? Or was he a great saint or
holy hermit in disguise? But whatever his spiritual peril might or might not be,
it was only too evident that he was incurring temporal dangers of a very awful
kind. And perhaps he was doing so in the simplicity of ignorance. Carlos could
not do less than warn him of them.
He soon returned; and drawing a small brown volume from beneath his
leathern jerkin, handed it to the young nobleman.
”My friend,” said Carlos kindly, as he took it from him, ”do you know what
you dare by offering this to me, or even by keeping it yourself?”
”I know it well, señor,” was the calm reply; and the muleteer’s dark eye met
his undauntedly.
”You are playing a dangerous game. This time you are safe. But take care.
You may try it once too often.”
”I shall not, señor. I shall witness for my Lord just so often as he permits.
When he has no more need of me, he will call me home.”
”God help you. I fear you are throwing yourself into the fire. And for
what?”
”For the joy of bringing food to the perishing, water to the thirsty, light
to those that sit in darkness, rest to the weary and heavy-laden. Señor, I have
counted the cost, and I shall pay the price right willingly.”
After a moment’s silence he continued: ”I leave within your hands the trea-
sure brought at such cost. But God alone, by his Divine Spirit, can reveal to you
its true worth. Señor, seek that Spirit. Nay, be not offended. You are very noble
and very learned; and it is a poor and ignorant man who speaks to you. But that
poor man is risking his life for your soul’s salvation; and thus he proves, at least,
how true his desire to see you one day at the right hand of Christ, his King and
Master. Adiõs, señor.”
He bowed low; and before Carlos had sufficiently recovered from his as-
tonishment to say a word in answer, he had left the room and closed the door
behind him.
”Strange being!” thought Carlos; ”but I shall talk with him again to-
morrow.” And ere he was aware, his eyelids were wet; for the courage and self-
 xlv

sacrifice of the poor muleteer had stirred some answering chord of emotion in
his heart. Probably, in spite of all appearances to the contrary, he was a madman;
or else he was a heretical fanatic. But he was a man willing to brave numberless
sufferings (of which a death of torture was the last and least), to bring his fellow-
men something which he imagined would make them happy. ”The Church has
no more orthodox son than I,” said Don Carlos Alvarez; ”but I shall read his book
for all that.”
Then, the hour being late, he retired to rest, and slept soundly.
He did not rise exactly with the sun, and when he came forth from his
chamber breakfast was already in preparation.
”Where is the muleteer who was here last night?” he asked Dolores.
”He was up and away at sunrise,” she answered. ”Fortunately, it is not my
custom to stop in bed and see the sunshine; so I just caught him loading his mules,
and gave him a piece of bread and cheese and a draught of wine. A smart little
man he is, and one who knows his business.”
”I wish I had seen him ere he left,” said Carlos aloud. ”Shall I ever look upon
his face again?” he added mentally.
Carlos Alvarez saw that face again, not by the ray of sun or moon, nor yet
by the gleam of the student’s lamp, but clear and distinct in a lurid awful light
more terrible than Egyptian darkness, yet fraught with strange blessing, since it
showed the way to the city of God, where the sun no more goes down, neither
doth the moon withdraw herself.
Juliano el Chico, otherwise Julian Hernandez, is no fancy sketch, no ”char-
acter of fiction.” It is matter of history that, cunningly stowed away in his alforjas,
amongst the ribbons, laces, and other trifles that formed their ostensible freight,
there was a large supply of Spanish New Testaments, of the translation of Juan
Perez. And that, in spite of all the difficulties and dangers of his self-imposed
task, he succeeded in conveying his precious charge safely to Seville.
Our cheeks grow pale, our hearts shudder, at the thought of what he and
others dared, that they might bring to the lips of their countrymen that living
water which was truly ”the blood of the men that went for it in jeopardy of their
lives.” More than jeopardy. Not alone did Juliano brave danger, he encountered
certain death. Sooner or later, it was impossible that he should not fall into the
pitiless grasp of that hideous engine of royal and priestly tyranny, called the Holy
Inquisition.
We have no words in which to praise such heroism as his. We leave that–
and we may be content to leave it–to Him whose lips shall one day pronounce
the sublime award, ”Well done, good and faithful servant; enter thou into the joy
of thy Lord.” But in the view of such things done and suffered for his name’s sake,
there is another thought that presses on the mind. How real and great, nay, how
xlvi

unutterably precious, must be that treasure which men were found willing, at
such cost, not only to secure for themselves, but even to impart to others.

IX.
El Dorado found

”So, the All-Great were the all-loving too–

So, through the thunder comes a human voice,
Saying, O heart I made, a heart beats here!
Face my hands fashioned, see it in myself!
Thou hast no power, nor mayest conceive of mine;
But love I gave thee with myself to love,
And thou must love me who have died for thee!”–R. Browning

Three silent months stole away in the old castle of Nuera. No outward event

affecting the fortunes of its inmates marked their progress. And yet they were by
far the most important months Don Carlos had ever seen, or perhaps would ever
see. They witnessed a change in him, mysterious in its progress but momentous
in its results. An influence passed over him, mighty as the wind in its azure
pathway, but, like it, visible only by its effects; no man could tell ”whence it
cometh or whither it goeth.”
Again it was early morning, a bright Sunday morning in September. Al-
ready Carlos stood prepared to go forth. He had quite discarded his student’s
habit, and was dressed like any other young nobleman, in a doublet and short
cloak of Genoa velvet, with a sword by his side. His Breviary was in his hand,
however, and he was on the point of taking up his hat when Dolores entered the
room, bearing a cup of wine and a manchet of bread.
Carlos shook his head, saying, ”I intend to communicate. And you, Do-
lores,” he added, ”are you not also going to hear mass?”
”Surely, señor; we will all attend our duty. But there is still time to spare;
your worship sets us an example in the matter of early rising.”
”It were shame to lose such fair hours as these. Prithee, Dolores, and lest I
forget, hast thou something savoury in the house for dinner!”
 xlvii

”Glad I am to hear you ask, señor. Hitherto it has seemed alike to jour
Excellency whether they served you with a pottage of lentils or a stew of par-
tridges. But since Diego had the good fortune to kill that buck on Wednesday, we
are better than well provided. Your worship shall dine on roast venison to-day.”
”That will do. And if thou wouldst add some of the batter ware, in which
thou art so skilful, it would be better still; for I intend to bring home a guest.”
”Now, the Saints help me, that is news! Without meaning offence, your
worship might have told me before. Any noble caballero coming to these parts
to visit you must needs have bed as well as board found him. And how can I, in
three hours, more or less–”
”Nay, be not alarmed, Dolores; no stranger is coming here. Only I wish to
bring the cura home to dinner.”
Even the self-restrained Dolores could not repress an exclamation of sur-
prise. For both the brothers had been accustomed to regard the ignorant vulgar
cura of the neighbouring village with unmitigated dislike and contempt. In old
times Dolores herself had sometimes tried to induce them to show him some
trifling courtesies, ”for their soul’s health.” They were willing enough to send
”that beggar”–as Don Juan used to call him–presents of meat or game when they
could, but these they would not have grudged to their worst enemy. To converse
with him, or to seat him at their table, was a very different matter. He was ”no
fit associate for noblemen,” said the boys; and Dolores, in her heart, agreed with
them. She looked at her young master to see whether he were jesting.
”He likes a good dinner,” Carlos added quietly. ”Let us for once give him
one.”
”In good faith, Señor Don Carlos, I cannot tell what has come to you. You
must be about doing penance for your sins, though I will say no young gentleman
of your years has fewer to answer for. Still, to please your whim, the cura shall
eat the best we have, though beans and bacon would be more fitting fare for him.”
”Thank you, mother Dolores,” said Carlos kindly. ”In truth, neither Don
Juan nor I had ever whim yet you did not strive to gratify.”
”And who would not do more than that for so pleasant and kind a young
master?” thought Dolores, as she withdrew to superintend the cooking opera-
tions. ”God’s blessing and Our Lady’s rest on him, and in sooth I think they do.
Three months ago he came here looking like a corpse out of the grave, and fitter,
as it seemed to me, to don his shroud than his priest’s frock. But the free moun-
tain air wherein he was born is bringing back the red to his cheek and the light to
his eye, thank the holy Saints. Ah, if his lady mother could only see her gallant
sons now!”
Meanwhile Don Carlos leisurely took his way down the hill. Having abun-
dance of time to spare, he chose a solitary, devious path through the cork-trees
xlviii

and the pasture land belonging to the castle. His heart was alive to every pleas-
ant sight and sound that met his eye and ear; although, or rather because, a low,
sweet song of thankfulness was all the while chanting itself within him.
During his solitary walk he distinctly realized for the first time the stupen-
dous change that had passed over him. For such changes cannot be understood
or measured until afterwards, perhaps not always then. Drawing from his pocket
Juliano’s little book, he clasped it in both hands. ”This, God be thanked, has done
it all, under him. And yet, at first, it added to my misery a hundred-fold.” Then
his mind ran back to the dreary days of helpless, almost hopeless wretchedness,
when he first began its perusal. Much of it had then been quite unintelligible to
him; but what he understood had only made his darkness darker still. He who
had but just learned from that stern teacher, Life, the meaning of sorrow, learned
from the pages of his book the awful significance of that other word, Sin. Bit-
ter hours, never to be remembered without a shudder, were those that followed.
Already prostrate on the ground beneath the weight of his selfish sorrow for the
love that might never be his, cruel blows seemed rained upon him by the very
hand to which he turned to lift him up. ”All was his own fault,” said conscience.
But had conscience, enlightened by his book, said no more, he could have borne
it. It was a different thing to recognize that all was his own sin–to feel more
keenly every day that the whole current of his thoughts and affections was set in
opposition to the will of God as revealed in that book, and illustrated in the life
of him of whom it told.
But this sickness of heart, deadly though it seemed, was not unto death.
The Word had indeed proved a mirror, in which he saw his own face reflected
with the lines and colours of truth. But it had a farther use for him. As he did
not fling it away in despair, but still gazed on, at length he saw in its clear depths
another Face–a Face radiant with divine majesty, yet beaming with tender love
and pity. He whom the mirror thus gave back to him had been ”not far” from
him all his life; had been standing over against him, watching and waiting for
the moment in which to reveal himself. At last that moment came. He looked up
from the mirror to the real Face; from the Word to him whom the Word revealed.
He turned himself and said unto him, ”Rabboni, which is to say. My Master.” He
laid his soul at his feet in love, in trust, in gratitude. And he knew then, not until
then, that this was the ”coming” to him, the ”believing” on him, the receiving
him, of which He spoke as the condition of life, of pardon, and of happiness.
From that hour he possessed life, he knew himself forgiven, he was happy.
This was no theory, but a fact–a fact which changed all his present and was
destined to change all his future.
He longed to impart the wonderful secret he had found. This longing over-
came his contempt for the cura, and made him seek to win him by kindness to
 xlix

listen to words which perhaps might open for him also the same wonderful foun-
tain of joy.
”Now I am going to worship my Lord, afterwards I shall speak of him,” he
said, as he crossed the threshold of the little village church.
In due season the service was over. Its ceremonies did not pain or offend
Carlos in any way; he took part in them with much real devotion, as acts of
homage paid to his Lord. Still, if he had analyzed his feelings (which he did not),
he would have found them like those of a king’s child, who is obliged, on days
of courtly ceremonial, to pay his father the same distant homage as the other
peers of the realm, and yet knows that all this for him is but an idle show, and
longs to throw aside its cumbrous pomp, and to rejoice once more in the free
familiar intercourse which is his habit and his privilege. But that the ceremonial
itself could be otherwise than pleasing to his King, he had not the most distant
suspicion.
He spoke kindly to the priest, and inquired by name after all the sick folk
in the village, though in fact he knew more about them himself by this time than
did Father Tomas.
The cura’s heart was glad when the catechism came to a termination so
satisfactory as an invitation to dine at the castle. Whatever the fare might be–
and his expectations were not extravagantly high–it could scarce fail to be an
improvement on the olla of which he had intended to make his Sunday repast.
Moreover, one favour from the castle might be the earnest of others; and favours
from the castle, poor though its lords might be, were not to be despised. Nor
was he ill at ease in the society of an accomplished gentleman, as a man just a
little better bred would probably have been. A wealthy peasant’s son, and with
but scanty education, Father Tomas was so hopelessly vulgar that he never once
imagined he was vulgar at all.
Carlos bore as patiently as he could with his coarse manners, and con-
versation something worse than commonplace. Not until the repast was con-
cluded did he find an opportunity of bringing forward the topic upon which he
longed to speak. Then, with more tact than his guest could appreciate, he be-
gan by inquiring–as one himself intended for the priesthood might naturally
do–whether he could always keep his thoughts from wandering while he was
celebrating the holy mysteries of the faith.
Father Tomas crossed himself, and answered that he was a sinner like other
men, but that he tried to do his duty to our holy Mother Church to the best of his
ability.
Carlos remarked, that unless we ourselves know the love of God by expe-
rience we cannot love him, and that without love there is no acceptable service.
”Most true, señor,” said the priest, turning his eyes upwards. ”As the holy
l

St. Augustine saith. Your worship quotes from him, I believe.”

”I have quoted nothing,” said Carlos, beginning to feel that he was speaking
to the deaf; ”but I know the words of Christ.” And then he spoke, out of a full heart,
of Christ’s work for us, of his love to us, and of the pardon and peace which those
receive that trust him.
But his listener’s stolid face betrayed no interest, only a vague uneasiness,
which increased as Carlos proceeded. The poor parish cura began to suspect that
the clever young collegian meant to astonish and bewilder him by the exhibition
of his learning and his ”new ideas.” Indeed, he was not quite sure whether his
host was eloquently enlarging all the time upon Catholic truths, or now and
then mischievously throwing out a few heretical propositions, in order to try
whether he would have skill enough to detect them. Naturally, he did not greatly
relish this style of entertainment. Nothing could be got from him save a cautious,
”That is true, señor,” or, ”Very good, your worship;” and as soon as his notions of
politeness would permit, he took his leave.
Carlos marvelled greatly at his dulness; but soon dismissed him from his
mind, and took his Testament out to read under the shade of the cork-trees. Ere
long the light began to fade, but he sat there still in the fast deepening twilight.
Thoughts and fancies thronged upon his mind; and dreams of the past sought,
as even yet they often did, to reassert their supremacy over his heart. One of
those apparently unaccountable freaks of memory, which we all know by experi-
ence, brought back to him suddenly the luscious perfume of the orange-blossoms,
called by the Spaniards the azahar. Such fragrance had filled the air, and such
flowers had been strewed upon his pathway, when last he walked with Donna
Beatrix in the fairy gardens of the Alcazar of Seville.
Keen was the pang that shot through his heart at the remembrance. But
it was conquered soon. As he went in-doors he repeated the words he had just
been reading, ”’He that cometh unto me shall never hunger; he that believeth on
me shall never thirst.’ And this hunger of the soul, as well is every other, He can
stay. Having him, I have all things.

”El Dorado
Yo hé trovado.”

Father, dear, unknown father, I have round the golden country. Not in the sense
thou didst fondly seek, and I as fondly dream to find it. Yet the only true land
of gold I have found indeed–the treasure unfailing, the inheritance incorruptible,
 li

undented and that fadeth not away, reserved in heaven for me.”

X.
Dolores

”Oh, hearts that break and give no sign,

Save whitening lip and fading tresses;
Till death pours out his cordial wine,
Slow dropped from misery’s crushing presses
If singing breath or echoing chord
To every hidden pang were given,
What endless melodies were poured,
As sad as earth, as sweet as heaven.”–O. W. Holmes

A great modern poet has compared the soul of man to a pilgrim who passes

through the world staff in hand, never resting, ever pressing onwards to some
point as yet unattained, ever sighing wearily, ”Alas! that there is never here.” And
with deep significance adds his Christian commentator, ”In Christ there is here.”
He who has found Christ ”is already at the goal.” ”For he stills our inner-
most fears, and fulfils our utmost longings.” ”In him the dry land, the mirage of
the desert, becomes living water.” ”He who knows him knows the reason of all
things.” Passing all along the ages, we might gather from the silent lips of the
dead such words as these, bearing emphatic witness to what human hearts have
found in him. Yet, after all, we would come back to his own grand and simple
words, as best expressing the truth: ”I am the bread of life;” ”I will give you rest;”
”In me ye shall have peace.”
With the peace which he gave there came to Carlos a strange new knowl-
edge also. The Testament, from its first page to its last, became intelligible to
him. From a mere sketch, partly dim and partly blurred and blotted, it grew into
a transparency through which light shone upon his soul, every word being itself
a star.
He often read his book to Dolores, though he allowed her to suppose it
was Latin, and that he was improvising a translation for her benefit. She would
lii

listen attentively, though with a deeper shade of sadness on her melancholy face.
Never did she volunteer an observation, but she always thanked him at the end
in her usual respectful manner.
These readings were, in fact, a trouble to Dolores. They gave her pain, like
the sharp throbs that accompany the first return of consciousness to a frozen
member, for they awakened feelings that had long been dormant, and that she
thought were dead for ever. But, on the other hand, she was gratified by the
condescension of her young master in reading aloud for her edification. She had
gone through the world giving very largely out of her own large loving heart,
and expecting little or nothing in return. She would most gladly have laid down
her life for Don Juan or Don Carlos; yet she did not imagine that the old servant
of the house could be to them much more than one of the oak tables or the carved
chairs. That ”Señor Don Carlos” should take thought for her, and trouble himself
to do her good, thrilled her with a sensation more like joy than any she had
known for years. Little do those whose cups are so full of human love that they
carry them carelessly, spilling many a precious drop as they pass along, dream
how others cherish the few poor lees and remnants left to them.
Moreover Carlos, in the eyes of Dolores, was half a priest already, and this
lent additional weight, and even sacredness, to all that he said and did.
One evening he had been reading to her, in the inner room, by the light of
the little silver lamp. He had just finished the story of Lazarus, and he made some
remark on the grateful love of Mary, and the costly sacrifice by which she proved
it. Tears gathered in the dark wistful eyes of Dolores, and she said with sudden
and, for her, most unusual energy, ”That was small wonder. Any one would do
as much for him that brought the dear dead back from the grave.”
”He has done a greater thing than even that for each of us,” said Carlos.
But Dolores withdrew into her ordinary self again, as some timid creature
might shrink into its shell from a touch. ”I thank your Excellency,” she said,
rising to withdraw, ”and I also make my acknowledgments to Our Lady, who has
inspired you with such true piety, suitable to your holy calling.”
”Stay a little, Dolores,” said Carlos, as a sudden thought occurred to him; ”I
marvel it has so seldom come into my mind to ask you about my mother.”
”Ay, señor. When you were both children, I used to wonder that you and
Don Juan, while you talked often together of my lord your father, had scarce a
thought at all of your lady mother. Yet if she had lived you would have been her
favourite, señor.”
”And Juan my father’s,” said Carlos, not without a slight pang of jealousy.
”Was my noble father, then, more like what my brother is?”
”Yes, señor; he was bold and brave. No offence to your Excellency, for one
you love I warrant me you could be brave enough. But he loved his sword and
 liii

his lance and his good steed. Moreover, he loved travel and adventure greatly,
and never could bear to abide long in the same place.”
”Did he not make a voyage to the Indies in his youth?”
”He did; and then he fought under the Emperor, both in Italy, and in Africa
against the Moors. Once His Imperial Majesty sent him on some errand to Leon,
and there he first met my lady. Afterwards he crossed the mountains to our home,
and wooed and won her. He brought her, the fairest young bride eyes could rest
on, to Seville, where he had a stately palace on the Alameda.”
”You must have grieved to leave your mountains for the southern city.”
”No, señor, I did not grieve. Wherever your lady mother dwelt was home
to me. Besides, ’a great grief kills all the rest.’”
”Then you had known sorrow before. I thought you lived with our house
from your childhood.”
”Not altogether; though my mother nursed yours, and we slept in the same
cradle, and as we grew older shared each other’s plays. At seven years old I
went home to my father and mother, who were honest, well-to-do people, like
all my forbears–good ’old Christians,’ and noble–they could wear their caps in
the presence of His Catholic Majesty. They had no girl but me, so they would
fain have me ever in their sight. For ten years and more I was the light of their
eyes; and no blither lass ever led the goats to the mountain in summer, or spun
wool and roasted chestnuts at the winter fire. But, the year of the bad fever, both
were stricken. Christmas morning, with the bells for early mass ringing in my
ears, I closed my father’s eyes; and three days afterwards, set the last kiss on
my mother’s cold lips. Nigh upon five-and-twenty years ago,–but it seems like
yesterday. Folks say there are many good things in the world, but I have known
none so good as the love of father and mother. Ay de mi, señor, you never knew
either.”
”When your parents died, did you return to my mother?”
”For half a year I stayed with my brother. Though no daughter ever shed
truer tears over the grave of better parents, I was not then quite broken-hearted.
There was another love to whisper hope, and to keep me from desolation. He–
Alphonso (’tis years and years since I uttered the name save in my prayers) had
gone to the war, telling me he would come back and claim me for his bride. So
I watched for him hour by hour, and toiled and spun, and spun and toiled, that I
might not go home to him empty-handed. But at last a lad from our parish, who
had been a comrade of his, returned and told me all. He was lying on the bloody
field of Marignano, with a French bullet in his heart. Señor, the sisters you read
of could ’go to the grave and weep there.’ And yet the Lord pitied them.”
”He pities all who weep,” said Carlos.
”All good Christians, he may. But though an old Christian, I was not a
liv

good one. For I thought it bitter hard that my candle should be quenched in a
moment, like a wax taper when the procession is done. And it came often into
my mind how the Almighty, or Our Lady, or the Saints, could have helped me if
they would. May they forgive me; it is hard to be religious.”
”I do not think so.”
”I suppose it is not hard to learned gentlemen who have been at the col-
leges. But how can simple men and women tell whether they are keeping all
the commandments of God and Holy Church? It well may be that I had done
something, or left something undone, whereby Our Lady was displeased.”
”It is not Our Lady, but our Lord himself, who holds the keys of hell and
of death,” said Carlos, gaining at the moment a new truth for his own heart.
”None enter the gates of death, as none shall come forth through them, save at
his command. But go on, Dolores, and tell me how did comfort come to you?”
”Comfort never came to me, señor. But after a time there came a kind of
numbness and hardness that helped me to live my life as if I cared for it. And your
lady mother (God rest her soul!) showed me wondrous kindness in my sorrow.
It was then she took me to be her own maiden. She had me taught many things,
such as reading and various cunning kinds of embroidery, that I might serve her
with them, she said; but I well knew they were meant to turn my heart away
from its own aching. I went with her to Seville. I could be glad for her, señor,
that God had given her the good thing he had denied to me. At last it came to be
almost like joy to me to see the great deep love there was between your father
and her.”
This was a degree of unselfishness beyond the comprehension of Carlos
just then. He felt his own wound throb painfully, and was not sorry to turn the
conversation. ”Did my parents reside long in Seville?” he asked.
”Not long, señor. Their life there was a gay one, as became their rank and
wealth (for, as your worship knows, your father had a noble estate then). But soon
they both grew tired of the gay world. My lady ever loved the free mountains,
and my lord–I scarce can tell what change passed over him. He lost his care for
the tourney and the dance, and betook himself instead to study. Both were glad
to withdraw to this quiet spot. Here your brother Don Juan was born; and for
nigh a year after wards no lord and lady could have led a happier and, at the same
time, more pious and orderly life, than did your noble parents.”
The thoughtful eye of Carlos turned to the inscription on the window, and
kindled with a strange light. ”Was not this room my father’s favourite place of
study?” he asked.
”It was, señor. Of course, the house was not then as it now is. Though
simple enough, after the Seville palace with its fountains and marble statues, and
doors grated with golden net work, it was still a seemly dwelling-place for a noble
 lv

lord and lady. There was glass in all the windows then, though through neglect
and carelessness it has been broken (even your worship nay remember how Don
Juan sent an arrow through a quarrel pane in the west window one day), so we
thought it best to remove the traces.”
”My parents led a pious life, you say?”
”Truly they did, señor. They were good and charitable to the poor; and they
spent much of their time reading holy books, as you do now. Ay de mi! what was
wrong with them I know not, save that perhaps they were scarce careful enough
to give Holy Church all her dues. And I used sometimes to wish that my lady
would show more devotion to the blessed Mother of God. But she felt it all, no
doubt; only it was not her way, nor my lord’s either, to be for ever running about
on pilgrimage or offering wax candles, nor yet to keep the father confessor every
instant with his ear to their lips.”
Carlos started, and turned an earnest inquiring gaze upon her. ”Did my
mother ever read to you as I have done?” he asked.
”She sometimes read me good words out of the Breviary, señor. All thing
went on thus, until one day when a letter came from the Emperor himself (as I
believe), desiring your father to go to him, to Antwerp. The matter was to be kept
very private, but my lady used to tell me everything. My lord thought he was to
be sent on some secret mission where skill was needed, and perchance peril was
to be met. For it was well known that he loved such affairs, and was dexterous
in the management of them. So he parted cheerily from my lady, she standing at
the gate yonder, and making little Don Juan kiss hands to him as he rode down
the path. Woe for the poor babe, that never saw his father’s face again! And
worse woe for the mother! But death heals all things, except sin.
”After three weeks or a month, more or less, two monks of St. Dominic
rode to the gates one day. The younger stayed without in the hall with us; while
the elder, a man of stern and stately presence, had private audience of my lady in
this chamber where we sit now–a place of death it has seemed to me ever since.
For the audience had not lasted long until I heard a cry–such a cry!–it rings in
nay ears even now. I hastened to my lady. She had swooned–and long, long was
it before sense returned again. Do not keep looking at me, señor, with eyes so
like hers, or I cannot tell you more.”
”Did she speak? Did she reveal anything to you?”
”Nothing, señor. During the days that followed, only things without mean-
ing or connection, such as those in fever speak, or broken words of prayer, were
on her lips. Until the very last, and then she was worn and weak, and could
but receive the rites of the Church, and whisper a few directions about the poor
babes. She bade us give you the name you bear, since he had said that his next boy
should be called for the great Emperor. Then she prayed very earnestly, ’Lord,
lvi

take him Thyself–take him Thyself!’ Doctor Marco, who was present, thought
she meant the poor little new-born babe–supposing, and no wonder, that it would
be better tended in heaven by Our Lady and the angels, than here on earth. But
I know it was not you she thought of.”
”My poor mother–God rest her soul! Nay, I doubt not that now she rests
in God,” Carlos added, softly.
”And so the curse fell on your house, señor; and in such sorrow were you
born. Yet you grew up merry lads, you and Don Juan.”
”Thanks to thy care and kindness, well-beloved and faithful nurse. But,
Dolores, tell me truly–have you never heard anything further of, or from, my
father?”
”From him, never. Of him, that I believed, never.”
”And what do you believe?” Carlos asked, eagerly.
”I know nothing, señor. I have heard all that your worship has heard, and
no more.”
”Do you think it is true–what we have all been told–of his death in the
Indies?”
”I know nothing, señor,” Dolores repeated, with the air of a person deter-
mined to say nothing.
But Carlos would not allow her to escape thus. Both had gone too far to
leave the subject without probing it to its depths. And both felt instinctively that
it was not likely again to be discussed between them. Laying his hand on her
arm, and looking steadily in her face, he asked,–
”Dolores, are you sure my father is dead?”
Seemingly relieved by the form the question had taken, she met his gaze
without flinching, and answered in tones of evident sincerity, ”Sure as that I sit
here–so help me God.” After a long pause she added, as she rose to go, ”Señor
Don Carlos, be not offended if I counsel you this once, since I held you a babe in
my arms, and you will find none that loves you better–if a poor old woman may
say so to a young and noble caballero.”
”Say all you think to me, my dear and kind nurse.”
”Then, señor, I say, leave vain thoughts and questions about your father’s
fate. ’There are no birds in last year’s nests;’ and ’Water that has run by will turn
no mill.’ And I entreat of you to repeat the same to your noble brother when
you find opportunity. Look before you, señor, and not behind; and God’s best
blessings rest on you!”
Dolores turned to go, but turning back again, stood irresolute.
”What is it, Dolores?” Carlos asked; hoping, perhaps, for some further
glimmer of light upon that dark past, from which she implored him to turn his
thoughts.
 lvii

”If it please you, Señor Don Carlos–” and she paused and hesitated.
”Can I do anything for you?” said Carlos, in a kind, encouraging tone.
”Ay, señor, that you can. With your learning and your good Book, surely
you can tell me whether the soul of my poor Alphonso, dead on the battle-field
without shrift or sacrament, has yet found rest with God?”
Thus the tree woman’s heart, though so full of sympathy for others, still
turned back to its own sorrow, which lay deepest of all.
Carlos felt himself unexpectedly involved in a difficulty. ”My book tells me
nothing on the subject,” he said, after some thought. ”But I am sure you may be
comforted, after all these years, during which you have diligently prayed, and
sought the Church’s prayers for him.”
The long eager gaze of her wistful eyes asked mournfully, ”Is this all you
can tell me?” But her lips only said, ”I thank your Excellency,” as she withdrew.

XI.
The Light Enjoyed.

”Doubt is slow to clear and sorrow is hard to bear,

And each sufferer has his say, his scheme of the weal and the woe;
But God has a few of us whom he whispers in the ear;
The rest may reason and welcome, ’tis we musicians know.”–R.
Browning

Bewildering were the trains of thought which the conversation just narrated

awakened in the mind of Carlos. On the one hand, a gleam of light was shed
upon his father’s career, suggesting a possible interpretation of the inscription
on the window, that thrilled his heart with joy. On the other, the termination of
that career was involved in even deeper obscurity than before; and he was made
to feel, more keenly than ever, how childish and unreal were the dreams which
he and his brother had been wont to cherish upon the subject.
Moreover, Dolores, just before she left him, had drawn a bow at a venture,
and most unintentionally sent a sharp arrow through a joint in his harness. Why
could he find no answer to a question so simple and natural as the one she had
lviii

asked him? Why did the Book, which had solved so many mysteries for him, shed
not a ray of light upon this one? Whence this ominous silence of the apostles
and evangelists upon so many things that the Church most loudly proclaimed?
Where, in his Book, was purgatory to be found at all? Where was the adoration
of the Virgin and the saints? Where were works of supererogation? But here he
started in horror, as one who suddenly saw himself on the brink of a precipice.
Or rather, as one dwelling secure and contented within a little circle of light and
warmth, to whom such questions came as intimations of a chaos surrounding it
on every side, into which a chance step might at any moment plunge him.
Most earnestly he entreated that the Lord of his life, the Guide of his spirit,
would not let him go forth to wander there. He prayed, expressly and repeatedly,
that the doubts which began to trouble him might be laid and silenced. His prayer
was answered, as all true prayer is sure to be, but it was not granted. He whose
love is strong and deep enough to work out its good purpose in us even against
the pleadings of our own hearts, saw that his child must needs pass through ”a
land of darkness” to reach the clearer light beyond. Conflicts fierce and terrible
must be his portion, if indeed he were to take his place amongst those ”called and
chosen and faithful” ones who, having stood beside the Lamb in his contest with
Antichrist, shall stand beside him on the sea of glass mingled with fire.
Already Carlos was in training for that contest–though as yet he knew
not that there was any contest before him, save the general ”striving against
sin” in which all Christians have to take part. For the joy of the Lord is the
Christian’s strength in the day of battle. And he usually prepares those faithful
soldiers whom he means to set in the forefront of the hottest battle, by previously
bestowing that joy upon them in very full measure. He who is willing to ”sell all
that he hath,” must first have found a treasure, and what ”the joy thereof” is none
else may declare.
In this joy Carlos lived now; and it was as yet too fresh and new to be
greatly disturbed by haunting doubts or perplexing questions. These, for the
present, came and passed like a breath upon a surface of molten gold, scarcely
dimming its lustre for a moment.
It had become his great wish to receive Orders as soon as possible, that
he might consecrate himself more entirely to the service of his Lord, and spread
abroad the knowledge of his love more widely. With this view, he determined on
returning to Seville early in October.
He left Nuera with regret, especially on account of Dolores, who had taken
a new place in his consideration, and even in his affections, since he had begun
to read to her from his Book. And, though usually very calm and impassive in
manner, she could scarcely refrain from tears at the parting. She entreated him,
with almost passionate earnestness, to be very prudent and careful of himself in
 lix

the great city.

Carlos, who saw no special danger likely to menace him, save such as might
arise from his own heart, felt tempted to smile at her foreboding tone, and asked
her what she feared for him.
”Oh, Señor Don Carlos,” she pleaded, with clasped hands, ”for the love of
God, take care; and do not be reading and telling your good words to every one
you meet. For the world is an ill place, your worship, where good is ofttimes
evil-spoken of.”
”Never fear for me,” returned Carlos, with his frank, pleasant smile. ”I have
found nothing in my Book but the most Catholic verities, which will be useful to
all and hurtful to none. But of course I shall be prudent, and take due care of my
words, lest by any extraordinary chance they might be misinterpreted. So that
you may keep your mind at peace, dear Mother Dolores.”

b.. The Light Divided from the Darkness:

XII.
The Light Divided from the Darkness.

”I felt and feel, whate’er befalls,

The footsteps of thy life in mine.”–Tennyson

In the glorious autumn weather, Don Carlos rode joyfully through cork and

chestnut groves, across bare brown plains, and amidst gardens of pale olives and
golden orange globes shining through dark glossy leaves. He had long ago sent
back to Seville the guard with which his uncle had furnished him, so that his
only companion was a country youth, trained by Diego to act as his servant.
But although he passed through the very district afterwards immortalized by the
adventures of the renowned Don Quixote, no adventure fell to his lot. Unless it
may count for an adventure that near the termination of his journey the weather
suddenly changed, and torrents of rain, accompanied by unusual cold, drove him
to seek shelter.
”Ride on quickly, Jorge,” he said to his attendant, ”for I remember there is a
venta[#] by the roadside not far off. A poor place truly, where we are little likely
lx

to find a supper. But we shall find a roof to shelter us and fire to warm us, and
these at present are our most pressing needs.”

[#] An inn.

Arrived at the venta, they were surprised to see the lazy landlord so far stirred
out of his usual apathy as to busy himself in trying to secure the fastening of
the outer door, that it might not swing backwards and forwards in the wind,
to the great discomfort of all within the house. The proud indifferent Spaniard
looked calmly up from his task, and remarked that he would do all in his power to
accommodate his worship. ”But unfortunately, señor and your Excellency, a very
great and principal nobleman has just arrived here, with a most distinguished
train of fine caballeros–his lordship’s gentlemen and servants; and kitchen, hall,
and chamber are as full of them as a hive is full of bees.”
This was evil news to Carlos. Proud, sensitive, and shy, there could be
nothing more foreign to his character than to throw himself into the society of
a person who, though really only his equal in rank, was so much his superior in
all that lends rank its charm in the eyes of the vulgar. ”We had better push on
to Ecija,” said he to his reluctant attendant, bravely turning his face to the storm,
and making up his mind to ten miles more in drenching rain.
At that moment, however, a tall figure emerged from the inner door, open-
ing into the long room behind the stable and kitchen, that formed the only toler-
able accommodation the one-storied venta afforded.
”Surely, señor, you do not intend to go further in this storm,” said the no-
bleman, whose fine thoughtful countenance Carlos could not but fancy that he
had seen before.
”It is not far to Ecija, señor,” returned Carlos, bowing. ”And ’First come first
served,’ is an excellent proverb.”
”The first-comer has certainly one privilege which I am not disposed to
waive–that of hospitably welcoming the second. Do me the favour to come in,
señor. You will find an excellent fire.”
Carlos could not decline an invitation so courteously given. He was soon
seated by the wood fire that blazed on the hearth of the inner room, exchanging
compliments, in true Spanish fashion, with the nobleman who had welcomed
him so kindly.
Though no one could doubt for an instant the stranger’s possession of the
pure ”sangre azul,”[#] yet his manners were more frank and easy and less cere-
monious than those to which Carlos had been accustomed in the exclusive and
 lxi

privileged class of Seville society—a fact accounted for by the discovery, after-
wards made, that he was born and educated in Italy.

[#] ”Blue blood”

”I have the pleasure of recognizing Don Carlos Alvarez de Santillanos y Meñaya,”

said he. ”I hope the babe about whom his worship showed such amiable anxiety
recovered from its indisposition?”
This then was the personage whom Carlos had seen in such close conver-
sation with the physician Losada. The association of ideas immediately brought
back the mysterious remark about his father he had overheard on that occasion.
Putting that aside, however, for the present, he answered, ”Perfectly, I thank your
grace. We attribute the recovery mainly to the skill and care of the excellent Dr.
Cristobal Losada.”
”A gentleman whose medical skill cannot be praised too highly, except,
indeed, it were exalted at the expense of his other excellent qualities, and partic-
ularly his charity to the poor.”
Carlos heartily acquiesced, and added some instances of the physician’s
kindness to those who could not recompense him again. They were new to his
companion, who listened with interest.
During this conversation supper was laid. As the principal guest had
brought his own provisions with him, it was a comfortable and plentiful repast.
Carlos, ere he sat down, left the room to re-arrange his dress, and found oppor-
tunity to ask the innkeeper if he knew the noble stranger’s name.
”His Excellency is a great noble from Castile,” returned mine host, with an
air of much importance. ”His name, as I am informed, is Don Carlos de Seso; and
his illustrious lady, Doña Isabella, is of the blood royal.”
”Where does he reside?”
”His gentlemen tell me, principally at one of his fine estates in the north,
Villamediana they call it. He is also corregidor[#] of Toro. He has been visiting
Seville upon business of importance, and is now returning home.”

[#] Mayor

Pleased to be the guest of such a man (for in fact he was his guest), Carlos took his
seat at the table, and thoroughly enjoyed the meal. An hour’s intercourse with a
lxii

man who had read and travelled much, but had thought much more, was a rare
treat to him. Moreover, De Seso showed him all that fine courtesy which a youth
so highly appreciates from a senior, giving careful attention to every observation
he hazarded, and manifestly bringing the best of his powers to bear on his own
share of the conversation.
He spoke of Fray Constantino’s preaching, with an enthusiasm that made
Carlos regret that he had been hitherto such an inattentive hearer. ”Have you
seen a little treatise by the Fray, entitled ’The Confession of a Sinner’?” he asked.
Carlos having answered in the negative, his new friend drew a tract from
the pocket of his doublet, and gave it to him to read while he wrote a letter.
Carlos, after the manner of eager, rapid readers, plunged at once into the
heart of the matter, disdaining beginnings.
Almost the first words upon which his eyes fell arrested his attention and
drew him irresistibly onwards. ”Such has been the pride of man,” he read, ”that
he aimed at being God; but so great was thy compassion towards him in his
fallen state, that thou abasedst thyself to become not only of the rank of men,
but a true man, and the least of men, taking upon thee the form of a servant,
that thou mightest set me at liberty, and that by means of thy grace, wisdom,
and righteousness, man might obtain more than he had lost by his ignorance
and pride.... Wast thou not chastised for the iniquity of others? Has not thy
blood sufficient virtue to wash out the sins of all the human race? Are not thy
treasures more able to enrich me than all the debt of Adam to impoverish me?
Lord, although I had been the only person alive, or the only sinner in the world,
thou wouldst not have failed to die for me. O my Saviour, I would say, and say
it with truth, that I individually stand in need of those blessings which thou hast
given to all. What though the guilt of all had been mine? thy death is all mine.
Even though I had committed all the sins of all, yet would I continue to trust thee,
and to assure myself that thy sacrifice and pardon is all mine, though it belong
to all.”
So far he read in silence, then the tract fell from his hand, and an involun-
tary exclamation broke from his lips–”Passing strange!”
De Seso paused, pen in hand, and looked up surprised. ”What find you
’passing strange,’ señor?” he asked.
”That he–that Fray Constantino should have felt precisely what–what he
describes here.”
”That such a holy man should feel so deeply his own utter sinfulness? But
you are doubtless aware that the holiest saints in all ages have shared this ex-
perience. St. Augustine, for instance, with whose writings so ripe a theological
scholar is doubtless well acquainted.”
”Such,” returned Carlos, ”are not worse than others; but they know what
 lxiii

they are as others do not.”

”True. Tried by the standard of God’s perfect law, the purest life must
appear a miserable failure. We may call the marble of our churches and dwellings
white, until we see God’s snow, pure and fresh from heaven, upon it.”
”Ay, señor,” said Carlos, wild joyful eagerness; ”but the Hand that points
out the stains can cleanse them. No snow is half so pure as the linen clean and
white which is the righteousness of saints.”
It was De Seso’s turn to be astonished now. In the look that, half lean-
ing over the table, he bent upon the eager face of Carlos, surprise and emotion
blended. For a moment their eyes met with a flash, like that which flint strikes
from steel, of mutual intelligence and sympathy. But it passed again as quickly.
De Seso said, ”I suspect that I see in you, Señor Don Carlos, one of those admirable
scholars who have devoted their talents to the study of that sacred language in
which the words of the holy apostles are handed down to us. You are a Grecian?”
Carlos shook his head. ”Greek is but little studied at Complutum now,” he
said, ”and I confined myself to the usual theological course.”
”In which, I have heard, your success has been brilliant. But it is a sore
disgrace to us, and a heavy loss to the youth of our nation, that the language of
St. John and St. Paul should be deemed unworthy of their attention.”
”Your Excellency is aware that it was otherwise in former years,” returned
Carlos. ”Perhaps the present neglect is owing to the suspicion of heresy which,
truly or falsely, has attached itself to most of the accomplished Greek scholars of
our time.”
”A miserable misapprehension; the growth of monkish ignorance and envy,
and popular superstition. Heresy is a convenient stigma with which men ofttimes
brand as evil the good they are incapable of comprehending.”
”Most true, señor. Even Fray Constantino has not escaped.”
”His crime has been, that he has sought to turn the minds of men from
outward acts and ceremonies to the great spiritual truths of which these are the
symbols. To the vulgar, Religion is nothing but a series of shows and postures.”
”Yes,” answered Carlos; ”but the heart that loves God, and truly believes in
our Lord and Saviour, is taught to put such in their proper place. ’These ought
ye to have done, and not to leave the other undone.’”
”Señor Don Carlos,” said De Seso, with surprise he could no longer sup-
press, ”you are evidently a devout and earnest student of the Scriptures.”
”I search the Scriptures; in them I think I have eternal life. And they testify
of Christ,” promptly responded the less cautious youth.
”I perceive that you do not quote the Vulgate.”
Carlos smiled. ”No, señor. To a man of your enlightened views I am not
afraid to acknowledge the truth. I have seen–nay, why should I hesitate?–I pos-
lxiv

sess a rare treasure–the New Testament of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ in
our own noble Castilian tongue.”
Even through the calm and dignified deportment of his companion Carlos
could perceive the thrill that this communication caused. There was a pause;
then he said softly, ”And your treasure is also mine.” The low quiet words came
from even greater depths of feeling than the eager tremulous tones of Carlos.
For his convictions, slowly reached and dearly purchased, were ”built below” the
region of the soul that passions agitate,–

”Based on the crystalline sea

Of thought and its eternity.”

The heart of Carlos glowed with sudden ardent love towards the man who

shared his treasure, and, he doubted not, his faith also. He could joyfully have
embraced him on the spot. But the force of habit and the sensitive reserve of his
character checked this impetuous demonstrativeness. He only said, with a look
that was worth an embrace, ”I knew it. Your Excellency spoke as one who held
our Lord and his truth in honour.”
”Ella es pues honor a vosotros que creeis.”[#]

[#] ”Unto you who believes he is precious,” or ”an honour.”

It would have been hard to begin a verse that Carlos could not at this time have
instantly completed. He went on: ”Mas para los que no creen, la piedra que los
edificatores reprobaron.”[#]

[#] ”But unto them that believe not, the stone that the builders reject.”

”A sorrowful truth,” said De Seso, ”which my young friend must needs bear in
mind. His Word, like himself, is rejected by the many. Its very mention may
expose to obloquy and danger.”
”Only another instance, señor, of those lamentable prejudices about heresy
about which we spoke anon. I am aware that there are those that would brand
me (me, a scholar too!) with the odious name of heretic, merely for reading God’s
Word in my own tongue. But how utterly absurd the charge! The blessed Book
 lxv

has but confirmed my faith in all the doctrines of our holy Mother Church.”
”Has it?” said De Seso, quietly, perhaps a little drily.
”Most assuredly, señor,” Carlos rejoined, with warmth. ”In fact I never un-
derstood, or, I may say, truly believed those holy verities until now. Beginning
with the Credo itself, and the orthodox Catholic faith in our Lord’s divinity and
atonement.”
Here their conversation was interrupted by the entrance of the attendants,
who removed supper, replenished the lamp, and heaped fresh chestnut logs on
the fire. But as soon as the room was cleared they returned eagerly to subjects
so interesting to both.
”Our salvation rests,” said De Seso, ”upon the great cardinal truths you have
named. By the faith which receives into your heart the atonement of Christ as a
work done for you, you are justified.”
”I am forgiven, and I shall be justified.”
”Pardon me, señor; Scripture teaches that your justification is already com-
plete. Therefore, being justified by faith, we have peace with God.”
”But that cannot surely be the apostle’s meaning,” said Carlos. ”Ay de mi!
I know too well that I am not yet completely justified. Far from it; evil thoughts
throng my heart; and not with heart alone, but with lips, eyes, hands, I transgress
daily.”
”Yet, you see, peace can only be consequent on justification. And peace
you have.”
Carlos looked perplexed. Misled by the teaching of his Church, he confused
justification with sanctification; consequently he could not legitimately enjoy the
peace that ought to flow from the one as a complete and finished work, because
the other necessarily remained imperfect.
De Seso explained that the word justify is never used in Scripture in its
derivative sense, to make righteous; but always in its common and universally
accepted sense, to account or declare righteous. Quite easily and naturally he
glided into the teacher’s place, whilst Carlos gladly took that of the learner; not,
indeed, without astonishment at the layman’s skill in divinity, but with too in-
tense an interest in what he said to waste much thought upon his manner of
saying it.
Hitherto he had been like an unlearned man, who, without guide or com-
panion, explores the trackless shores of a newly-discovered land. Should such an
one meet in his course a scientific explorer, who has mapped and named every
mountain, rock, and bay, who has traced out the coast-line, and can tell what lies
beyond the white hills in the distance, it is easy to understand the eagerness with
which he would listen to his narrative, and the intentness with which he would
bend over the chart in which the scene of his own journeyings lies portrayed.
lxvi

Thus De Seso not only taught Carlos the true meaning of Scripture terms,
and the connection of Scripture truths with each other; he also made clear to him
the facts of his own experience, and gave names to them for him.
”I think I understand now,” said Carlos after a lengthened conversation, in
which, moving from point to point, he had suggested many doubts and not a
few objections, and these in turn had been taken up and answered by his friend.
”God be thanked, there is no more condemnation, no more punishment for us.
Nothing, either in act or suffering, can be added to the work of Christ, which is
complete.”
”Ay, now you have grasped the truth which is the source of our joy and
strength.”
”It must then be our sanctification which suffering promotes, both in this
life and in purgatory.”
”All God’s dealings with us in this life are meant to promote our sanctifi-
cation. Joy may do it, by his grace, as well as sorrow. It is written, not alone, ’He
humbled thee and suffered thee to hunger,’ but also, ’He fed thee with manna, to
teach the secret of life in him, from him, and by him.’”
”But suffering is purifying–like fire.”
”Not in itself. Criminals released from the galleys usually come forth hard-
ened in their crimes by the lash and the oar.”
Having said this, De Seso rose and extinguished the expiring lamp, while
Carlos remained thoughtfully gazing into the fire. ”Señor,” he said, after a long
pause, during which the stream of thought ran continuously underground, to
reappear consequently in an unexpected place–”Señor, do you think God’s Word,
which solves so many mysteries, can answer every question for us?”
”Scarcely. Some questions we may ask, of which the answers, in our present
state, would be beyond our comprehension. And others may indeed be answered
there, but we may miss the answers, because through weakness of faith we are
not yet able to receive them.”
”For instance?”
”I had rather not name an instance–at present,” said De Seso, and Carlos
thought his face had a sorrowful look as he gazed at it in the firelight.
”I would not willingly miss anything my Lord meant to teach. I desire to
know all his will, and to follow it,” Carlos rejoined earnestly.
”It may be that you know not what you desire. Still, name any question you
wish; and I will tell you freely whether in my judgment God’s Word contains an
answer.”
Carlos stated the difficulty suggested by the inquiry of Dolores. Who can
tell the exact moment when his bark leaves the gently-flowing river for the great
deep ocean? That of Carlos, on the instant when he put this question, was met
 lxvii

by the first wave of the mighty sea upon which he was to be tossed by many a
storm. But he did not know it.
”I agree with you as to the silence of God’s Word about purgatory,” returned
his friend; and for some time both gazed into the fire without speaking.
”This and similar discoveries have sometimes given me, I own, a feeling of
blank disappointment, and even of terror,” said Carlos at length. For with him it
was one of those rare hours in which a man can bear to translate into words the
”dark misgivings” of the soul, usually unacknowledged even to himself.
”I cannot say,” was the answer, ”that the thought of passing through the
gate of death into the immediate presence of my glorified Lord affects me with
’blank disappointment’ or ’terror.’”
”How?–What do you say?” cried Carlos, starting visibly.
”’Absent from the body, present with the Lord.’ ’To depart and to be with
Christ is far better.’”
”But it was San Pablo, the great apostle and martyr, who said that. For
us,–we have the Church’s teaching,” Carlos rejoined in quick, anxious tones.
”Nevertheless, I venture to think that, in the face of all you have learned
from God’s Word, you will find it a task somewhat of the hardest to prove pur-
gatory.”
”Not at all,” said Carlos; and immediately he bounded into the arena of con-
troversy, laid his lance in rest, and began an animated tilting-match with his new
friend, who was willing (of course, thought Carlos, for argument’s sake alone,
and as an intellectual exercise) to personate a Lutheran antagonist.
But not a few doughty champions have met the stern reality of a bloody
death in the mimic warfare of the tilting-field. At every turn Carlos found himself
answered, baffled, confounded. Yet, how could he, how dared he, acknowledge
defeat, even to himself, when with the imperilled doctrine so much else must
fall? What would become of private masses, indulgences, prayers for the dead?
Nay, what would become of the infallibility of Mother Church herself?
So he fought desperately. Fear, ever increasing, quickened his preceptions,
baptized his lips with eloquence, made his sense acute and his memory retentive.
Driven at last from the ground of Scripture and reason, he took his stand upon
that of scholastic divinity. Using the weapons with which he had been taught
to play so deftly for once in terrible earnest, he spun clever syllogisms, in which
he hoped to entangle his adversary. But De Seso caught the flimsy webs in the
naked hand of his strong sense, and crushed them to atoms.
Then Carlos knew that the battle was lost. ”I can say no more,” he acknowl-
edged, sorrowfully bowing his head.
”And what I have said–is it not in accordance with the Word of God?”
With a cry of dismay on his lips, Carlos turned and looked at him–”God
lxviii

help us! Are we then Lutherans?”

”It may be Christ is asking another question–Are we amongst those who
follow him whithersoever he goeth?”
”Oh, not there–not to that!” cried Carlos, rising in his agitation and begin-
ning to pace the room. ”I abhor heresy–I eschew the thought. From my cradle I
have done so. Anywhere but that!”
Pausing at last in his walk before the place where De Seso sat, he asked,
”And you, señor, have you considered whither this would lead?”
”I have. I do not ask thee to follow. But this I say: if Christ bids any man
leave the ship and come to him upon these dark and stormy waters, he will stretch
out his own right hand to uphold and sustain him.”
”To leave the ship–his Church? That would be leaving him. And leaving
him, I am lost, soul and body–lost–lost!”
”Fear not. At his feet, clinging to him, soul of man was never lost yet.”
”I will cleave to him, and to the Church too.”
”Still, if one must be forsaken, let not that one be Christ.”
”Never, never–so help me God!” After a pause he added, as if speaking to
himself, ”Lord, to whom shall we go? Thou hast the words of eternal life.”
He stood motionless, wrapt in thought; while De Seso rose softly, and going
to the window, put aside the rude shutter that had been fastened across it.
”The night is bright,” said Carlos dreamily. ”The moon must have risen.”
”That is daylight you see,” returned his companion with a smile. ”Time for
wayfarers to seek rest in sleep.”
”Prayer is better than sleep.”
”True, and we who own the same precious faith can well unite in prayer.”
With the willing consent of Carlos, his new friend laid their common de-
sires and perplexities before God. The prayer was in itself a revelation to him;
he forgot even to wonder that it came from the lips of a layman. For De Seso
spoke as one accustomed to converse with the Unseen, and to enter by faith to
the inner sanctuary, the very presence of God himself. And Carlos found that it
was good thus to draw nigh to God. He felt his troubled soul returning to its rest,
to its quiet confidence in Him who, he knew, would guide him by his counsel,
and afterwards receive him into glory.
When they rose, instinctively their right hands sought each other, and were
locked in that strong grasp which is sometimes worth more than an embrace.
”We have confidence each in the other,” said De Seso, ”so that we need
exchange no pledge of faithfulness or secrecy.”
Carlos bowed his head. ”Pray for me, señor,” he said. ”Pray that God, who
sent you here to teach me, may in his own time complete the work he has begun.”
Then both lay down in their cloaks; one to sleep, the other to ponder and
 lxix

pray.
In the morning each went his several way. And never was it given to Carlos,
in this world, to look upon that face or to grasp that hand again.
He who had thus crossed his path, as it were for a moment, was perhaps the
noblest of all the heroic band of Spanish martyrs, that forlorn hope of Christ’s
army, who fought and fell ”where Satan’s seat was.” His high birth and lofty
station, his distinguished abilities, even those more superficial graces of person
and manner which are not without their strong fascination, were all–like the
precious ointment with the odour of which the house was filled–consecrated to
the service of the Lord for whom he lived and died. The eye of imagination
lingers with special and reverential love upon that grand calm figure. But our
simple story leads us far away amongst other scenes and other characters. We
must now turn to a different part of the wide missionary harvest-field, in which
the lowly muleteer Juliano Hernandez, and the great noble Don Carlos de Seso,
were both labouring. Was their labour in vain?

XIII.
Seville

”There is a multitude around,

Responsive to my prayer;
I hear the voice of my desire
Resounding everywhere.”–A. L. Waring

Don Carlos felt surprised, on returning to Seville, to find the circle in which

he had been wont to move exactly as he left it. His absence appeared to him
a great deal longer than it really was. Moreover, there lurked in his mind an
undefined idea that a period so fraught with momentous change to him could
not have passed without change over the heads of others. But the worldly only
seemed more worldly, the frivolous more frivolous, the vain more vain than ever.
Around the presence of Doña Beatriz there still hung a sweet dangerous fas-
cination, against which he struggled, and, in the strength of his new and mighty
principle of action, struggled successfully. Still, for the sake of his own peace, he
lxx

longed to find some fair pretext for making his home elsewhere than beneath his
uncle’s roof.
One great pleasure awaited his return–a letter from Juan. It was the sec-
ond he had received; the first having merely told of his brother’s safe arrival at
the headquarters of the royal army at Cambray. Don Juan had obtained his com-
mission just in time for active service in the brief war between France and Spain
that immediately followed the accession of Philip II. And now, though he said not
much of his own exploits, it was evident that he had already begun to distinguish
himself by the prompt and energetic courage which was a part of his character.
Moreover, a signal piece of good fortune had fallen to his lot. The Spaniards were
then engaged in the siege of St. Quentin. Before the works were quite completed,
the French General–the celebrated Admiral Coligny–managed to throw himself
into the town by a brilliant and desperate coup-de-main. Many of his heroic band
were killed or taken prisoners, however; and amongst the latter was a gentleman
of rank and fortune, a member of the admiral’s suite, who surrendered his sword
into the hands of young Don Juan Alvarez.
Juan was delighted with his prize, as he well might be. Not only was the
distinction an honourable one for so young a soldier; but the ransom he might
hope to receive would serve very materially to smooth his pathway to the attain-
ment of his dearest wishes.
Carlos was now able to share his brother’s joy with unselfish sympathy.
With a peculiar kind of pleasure, not quite unmixed with superstition, he re-
called Juan’s boyish words, more than once repeated, ”When I go to the wars,
I shall make some great prince or duke my prisoner.” They had found a fair, if
not exactly literal, fulfilment, and that so early in his career. And a belief that
had grown up with him from childhood was strengthened thereby. Juan would
surely accomplish everything upon which his heart was set. Certainly he would
find his father–if that father should prove to be after all in the land of the living.
Carlos was warmly welcomed back by his relatives–at least by all of them
save one. To a mild temper and amiable disposition he united the great advantage
of rivalling no man, and interfering with no man’s career. At the same time, he
had a well-defined and honourable career of his own, in which he bid fair to be
successful; so that he was not despised, but regarded as a credit to the family.
The solitary exception to the favourable sentiments he inspired was found in the
bitter disdain which Gonsalvo, with scarcely any attempt at disguise, exhibited
towards him.
This was painful to him, both because he was sensitively alive to the opin-
ions of others; and also because he actually preferred Gonsalvo, notwithstanding
his great and glaring faults, to his more calculating and worldly-minded broth-
ers. Force of any kind possesses a real fascination for an intellectual and sympa-
 lxxi

thetic, but rather weak character; and this fascination grows in intensity when
the weaker has a reason to pity and a desire to help the stronger.
It was not altogether grace, therefore, which checked the proud words that
often rose to the lips of Carlos in answer to his cousin’s sneers or sarcasms. He
was not ignorant of the cause of Gonsalvo’s contempt for him. It was Gonsalvo’s
creed that a man who deserved the name always got what he wanted, or died
in the attempt; unless, of course, absolutely insuperable physical obstacles inter-
fered, as they did in his own case. As he knew well enough what Carlos wanted
before his departure from Seville, the fact of his quietly resigning the prize, with-
out even an effort to secure it, was final with him.
One day, when Carlos had returned a forbearing answer to some taunt,
Doña Inez, who was present, took occasion to apologize for her brother, as soon
as he had quitted the room. Carlos liked Doña Inez much better than her still un-
married sister, because she was more generous and considerate to Beatriz. ”You
are very good, amigo mio,” she said, ”to show so great forbearance to my poor
brother. And I cannot think wherefore he should treat you so uncourteously. But
he is often rude to his brothers, sometimes even to his father.”
”I fear it is because he suffers. Though rather less helpless than he was six
months ago, he seems really more frail and sickly.”
”Ay de mi, that is too true. And have you heard his last whim? He tells
us he has given up physicians for ever. He has almost as ill an opinion of them
as–forgive me, cousin–of priests.”
”Could you not persuade him to consult your friend, Doctor Cristobal?”
”I have tried, but in vain. To speak the truth, cousin,” she added, drawing
nearer to Carlos, and lowering her voice, ”there is another cause that has helped
to make him what he is. No one knows or even guesses aught of it but myself; I
was ever his favourite sister. If I tell you, will you promise the strictest secrecy?”
Carlos did so; wondering a little what his cousin would think could she
surmise the weightier secrets which were burdening his own heart.
”You have heard of the marriage of Doña Juana de Xeres y Bohorques with
Don Francisco de Vargas?”
”Yes; and I account Don Francisco a very fortunate man.”
”Are you acquainted with the young lady’s sister Doña Maria de Bo-
horques?”
”I have met her. A fair, pale, queenly girl. She is not fond of gaiety, but
very learned and very pious, as I have been told.”
”You will scarce believe me, Don Carlos, when I tell you that pale, quiet girl
is Gonsalvo’s choice, his dream, his idol. How she contrived to gain that fierce,
eager young heart, I know not–but hers it is, and hers alone. Of course, he had
passing fancies before; but she was his first serious passion, and she will be his
lxxii

last.”
Carlos smiled. ”Red fire and white marble,” he said. ”But, after all, the
fiercest fire could not feed on marble. It must die out, in time.”
”From the first, Gonsalvo had not the shadow of a chance,” Doña Inez
replied, with an expressive flutter of her fan. ”I have not the least idea whether
the young lady even knows he loves her. But it matters not. We are Alvarez de
Meñaya; still we could not expect a grandee of the first order to give his daugh-
ter to a younger son of our house. Even before that unlucky bull-feast. Now,
of course, he himself would be the first to say, ’Pine-apple kernels are not for
monkeys,’ nor fair ladies for crippled caballeros. And yet–you understand?”
”I do,” said Carlos; and in truth he did understand, far better than Doña Inez
imagined.
She turned to leave the room, but turned back again to say kindly, ”I trust,
my cousin, your own health has not suffered from your residence among those
bleak inhospitable mountains? Don Garçia tells me he has seen you twice, since
your return, coming forth late in the evening from the dwelling of our good Señor
Doctor.”
There was a sufficient reason for these visits. Before they parted, De Seso
had asked Carlos if he would like an introduction to a person in Seville who could
give him further instruction upon the subjects they had discussed together. The
offer having been thankfully accepted, he was furnished with a note addressed,
much to his surprise, to the physician Losada; and the connection thus begun
was already proving a priceless boon to Carlos.
But nature had not designed him for a keeper of secrets. The colour
mounted rapidly to his cheek, as he answered,–
”I am flattered by my lady cousin’s solicitude for me. But, I thank God, my
health is as good as ever. In truth, Doctor Cristobal is a man of learning and a
pleasant companion, and I enjoy an hour’s conversation with him. Moreover, he
has some rare and valuable books, which he is kind enough to lend me.”
”He is certainly very well-bred, for a man of his station,” said Doña Inez,
condescendingly.
Carlos did not resume his attendance upon the lectures of Fray Constantino
at the College of Doctrine; but when the voice of the eloquent preacher was heard
in the cathedral, he was never absent. He had no difficulty now in recognizing
the truths that he loved so well, covered with a thin veil of conventional phrase-
ology. All mention, not absolutely necessary, of dogmas peculiarly Romish was
avoided, unless when the congregation were warned earnestly, though in terms
well-studied and jealously guarded, against ”risking their salvation” upon indul-
gences or ecclesiastical pardons. The vanity of trusting to their own works was
shown also; and in every sermon Christ was faithfully held up before the sinner
 lxxiii

as the one all-sufficient Saviour.

Carlos listened always with rapt attention, usually with keen delight. Often
would he look around him upon the sea of earnest upturned faces, saying within
himself, ”Many of these my brethren and sisters have found Christ–many more
are seeking him;” and at the thought his heart would thrill with thankfulness.
But even at that moment some word from the preacher’s lips might change his
joy into a chill of apprehension. It frequently happened that Fray Constantino,
borne onward by the torrent of his own eloquence, was betrayed into uttering
some sentiment so very nearly heretical as to make his hearer tingle with the
peculiar sense of pain that is caused by seeing one rush heedlessly to the verge
of a precipice.
”I often thank God for the stupidity of evil men and the simplicity of good
ones,” Carlos said to his new friend Losada, after one of these dangerous dis-
courses.
For by this time, what De Seso had first led him to suspect, had become a
certainty with him. He knew himself a heretic–a terrible consciousness to sink
into the heart of any man in those days, especially in Catholic Spain. Fortu-
nately the revelation had come to him gradually; and still more gradually came
the knowledge of all that it involved. Yet those were sorrowful hours in which
he first felt himself cut off from every hallowed association of his childhood and
youth; from the long chain of revered tradition, which was all he knew of the
past; from the vast brotherhood of the Church visible–that mighty organization,
pervading all society, leavening all thought, controlling all custom, ruling every-
thing in this world, even if not in the next. His own past life was shattered: the
ambitions he had cherished were gone–the studies he had excelled and delighted
in were proved for the most part worse than vain. It is true that he believed,
even still, that he might accept priestly ordination from the hands of Rome (for
the idolatry of the mass was amongst the things not yet revealed to him); but he
could no longer hope for honour or preferment, or what men call a career, in the
Church. Joy enough would it be if he were permitted, in some obscure corner of
the land, to tell his countrymen of a Saviour’s love; and perpetual watchfulness,
extreme caution, and the most judicious management would be necessary to pre-
serve him–as hitherto they had preserved Fray Constantino–from the grasp of
the Holy Inquisition.
To us, who read that word in the lurid light that martyr fires kindled after
this period have flung upon it, it may seem strange that Carlos was not more a
prey to fear of the perils entailed by his heresy. But so slowly did he pass out of
the stage in which he believed himself still a sincere Catholic into that in which he
shudderingly acknowledged that he was in very truth a Lutheran, that the shock
of the discovery was wonderfully broken to him. Nor did he think the danger
lxxiv

that menaced him either near or pressing, so long as he conducted himself with
reserve and prudence.
It is true that this reserve involved a degree of secrecy, if not of dissimula-
tion, that was fast becoming very irksome. Formerly the kind of fencing, feinting,
and doubling into which he was often forced, would rather have pleased him, as
affording for the exercise of ingenuity. But his moral nature was growing so
much more sensitive, that he began to recoil from slight departures from truth,
in which heretofore he would only have seen a proper exercise of the advantage
which a keen and quick intellect possesses over dull ones. Moreover, he longed to
be able to speak freely to others of the things which he himself found so precious.
Though quite sufficiently afraid of pain and danger, the thought of dis-
grace was still more intolerable to him. Keener than any suffering he had yet
known–except the pang of renouncing Beatrix–was the consciousness that all
those amongst whom he lived, and who now respected and loved him, would, if
they guessed the truth, turn away from him with unutterable scorn and loathing.
One day, when walking in the city with his aunt and Doña Sancha, they
turned down a side-street to avoid meeting the death procession of a murderer on
his way to the scaffold. The crime for which he suffered had been notorious; and
with the voluble exclamations of horror and congratulations at getting safely out
of the way to which the ladies gave expression, were mingled prayers for the soul
of the miserable man. ”If they knew all,” thought Carlos, as the slight, closely-
veiled forms clung trustingly to him for protection, ”they would think me worse,
more degraded, than yon wretched being. They pity him, they pray for him;
me they would only loathe and execrate. And Juan, my beloved, my honoured
brother–what will he think?” This last thought was the one that haunted him
most frequently and troubled him most deeply.
But had he nothing to counterbalance these pangs of fear and shame, these
manifold dark misgivings? He had much. First and best, he had the peace that
passeth all understanding shed abroad in his heart. Its light did not grow pale
and faint with time; on the other hand, it increased in brightness and steadiness,
as new truths arose like stars upon his soul, every new truth being in itself ”a
new joy” to him.
Moreover, he found keen enjoyment in the communion of saints. Great
was his surprise when, after sufficiently instructing him in private, and satisfac-
torily testing his sincerity, Losada cautiously revealed to him the existence of a
regularly-organized Lutheran Church in Seville, of which he himself was actu-
ally the pastor. He invited Carlos to attend its meetings, which were held, with
due precaution, and usually after nightfall, in the house of a lady of rank–Doña
Isabella de Baena.
Carlos readily accepted the perilous invitation, and with deep emotion took
 lxxv

his place amongst the band of ”called, chosen, and faithful” men and women, ev-
ery one of whom, as he believed, shared the same joys and hopes that he did.
They were not at all such a ”little band” as he expected to find them. Nor were
they, with very few exceptions, of the poor of this world. If that bright southern
land, so rich in all that kindles the imagination, eventually to her own ruin re-
jected the truth of God, at least she offered upon his altar some of her choicest
and fairest flowers. Many of those who met in Doña Isabella’s upper room were
”chief men” and ”devout and honourable women.” Talent, learning, excellence of
every kind was largely represented there; so also was the sangre azul, the boast
of the proud Spanish grandees. One of the first faces that Carlos recognized was
the sweet, thoughtful one of the young Doña Maria de Bohorques, whose preco-
cious learning and accomplishments had often been praised in his hearing, and
in whom he had now a new and peculiar interest.
There were two noblemen of the first order–Don Domingo de Guzman, son
of the Duke of Medina Sidonia, and Don Juan Ponce de Leon, son of the Count
of Baylen. Carlos had often heard of the munificent charities of the latter, who
had actually embarrassed his estates by his unbounded liberality to the poor. But
while Ponce de Leon was thus labouring to relieve the sorrows of others, a deep
sadness brooded over his own spirit. He was wont to go forth by night, and pace
up and down the great stone platform in the Prado San Sebastian, that bore the
ghastly name of the Quemadero, or Burning-place, while in his heart the shadow
of death–the darkest shadow of the dreadest death–was struggling with the light
of immortality.
Did the rest of that devoted band share the agony of apprehension that
filled those lonely midnight hours with passionate prayer? Some amongst them
did, no doubt. But with most, the circumstances and occupations of daily life
wove, with their multitudinous slender threads, a veil dense enough to hide, or
at least to soften, the perils of their situation. The Protestants of Seville contrived
to pass their lives and to do their work side by side with other men; they moved
amongst their fellow-citizens and were not recognized; they even married and
were given in marriage; though all the time there fell upon their daily paths the
shadow of the grim old fortress where the Holy Inquisition held its awful secret
court.
But then, at this period the Holy Inquisition was by no means exhibiting its
usual terrible activity. The Inquisitor-General, Fernando de Valdez, Archbishop
of Seville, was an old man of seventy-four, relentless when roused, but not par-
ticularly enterprising. Moreover, he was chiefly occupied in amassing enormous
wealth from his rich and numerous Church preferments. Hitherto, the fires of St.
Dominic had been kindled for Jews and Moors; only one Protestant had suffered
death in Spain, and Valladolid, not Seville, had been the scene of his martyrdom.
lxxvi

Seville, indeed, had witnessed two notable prosecutions for Lutheranism–that of

Rodrigo de Valer and that of Juan Gil, commonly called Dr. Egidius. But Valer had
been only sent to a monastery to die, while, by a disgraceful artifice, retractation
had been obtained from Egidius.
During the years that had passed since then, the Holy Office had appeared
to slumber. Victims who refused to eat pork, or kept Sabbath on Saturday, were
growing scarce for obvious reasons. And not yet had the wild beast ”exceeding
dreadful, whose teeth were of iron and his nails of brass,” begun to devour a
nobler prey. Did the monster, gorged with human blood, really slumber in his
den; or did he only assume the attitude and appearance of slumber, as some wild
beasts are said to do, to lure his unwary victims within the reach of his terrible
crouch and spring?
No one can certainly tell; but however it may have been, we doubt not the
Master used the breathing-time thus afforded his Church to prepare and polish
many a precious gem, destined to shine through all ages in his crown of glory.

XIV.
The Monks of San Isodro

”The earnest of eternal joy

In every prayer I trace;
I see the likeness of the Lord
In every patient face.
How oft, in still communion known,
Those spirits have been sent
To share the travail of my soul,
Or show me what it meant.”–A. L. Waring

It is amongst the perplexing conditions of our earthly life, that we cannot

first reflect, then act; first form our opinions, then, and not till then, begin to
carry them out into practice. Thought and action have usually to run beside each
other in parallel lines; a terrible necessity, and never more terrible than during
the progress of momentous inward changes.
 lxxvii

A man becomes convinced that the star by which he has hitherto been
steering is not the true pole-star, and that if he perseveres in his present course
his barque will inevitably be lost. At his peril, he must find out the one unerring
guide; yet, while he seeks it, his hand must not for an instant quit his hold on the
helm, for the winds of circumstance fill his sails, and he cannot choose whether
he will go, he can only choose where. This lies at the root of much of the apparent
inconsistency which has often been made a reproach to reformers.
Though Carlos did not feel this difficulty as keenly as some of his brethren
in the faith, he yet felt it. His uncle was continually pressing him to take Orders,
and to seek for this or that tempting preferment; whilst every day he had stronger
doubts as to the possibility of his accepting any preferment in the Church, and
was even beginning to entertain scruples about taking Orders at all.
During this period of deliberation and uncertainty, one of his new friends,
Fray Cassiodoro, an eloquent Jeromite friar, who assisted Losada in his ministra-
tions, said to him, ”If you intend embracing a religious life, Señor Don Carlos,
you will find the white tunic and brown mantle of St. Jerome more to your taste
than any other habit.”
Carlos pondered the hint; and shortly afterwards announced to his relatives
that he intended to ”go into retreat” for a season, at the Jeromite Convent of San
Isodro del Campo, which was about two miles from Seville.
His uncle approved this resolution; and none the less, because he thought
it was probably intended as a preparation for taking the cowl. ”After all, nephew,
it may turn out that you have the longest head amongst us,” he said. ”In the race
for wealth and honours, no man can doubt that the Regulars beat the Seculars
now-a-days. And there is not a saint in all the Spains so popular as St. Jerome.
You know the proverb,–

”’He who is a count, and to be a duke aspires.

Let him straight to Guadaloupe, and sing among the friars.’”

Gonsalvo, who was present, here looked up from his book and observed

sharply,–
”No man will ever be a duke who changes his mind three times within three
months.”
”But I only changed my mind once,” returned Carlos.
”You have never changed it at all, that I wot of,” said Don Manuel. ”And I
would that thine were turned in the same profitable direction, son Gonsalvo.”
”Oh yes! By all means. Offer the blind and the lame in sacrifice. Put Heaven
off with the wreck of a man that the world will not condescend to take into her
lxxviii

service.”
”Hold thy peace, son born to cross me!” said the father, losing his temper at
by no means the worst of the many provocations he had recently received. ”Is it
not enough to look at thee lying there a useless log, and to suffer thy vile temper;
but thou must set thyself against me, when I point out to thee the only path in
which a cripple such as thou could earn green figs to eat with his bread, not to
speak of supporting the rank of Alvarez de Meñaya as he ought.”
Here Carlos, out of consideration for the feelings of Gonsalvo, left the room;
but the angry altercation between the father and son lasted long after his depar-
ture.
The next day Don Carlos rode out, by a lonely path amidst the gray ruins
of old Italica, to the stately castellated convent of San Isodro. Amidst all his new
interests, the young Castilian noble still remembered with due enthusiasm how
the building had been reared, more than two hundred years ago, by the devotion
of the heroic Alonzo Guzman the Good, who gave up his own son to death, under
the walls of Tarifa, rather than surrender the city to the Moors.
Before he left Seville, he placed a copy of Fray Constantino’s ”Sum of Chris-
tian Doctrine” between two volumes of Gonsalvo’s favourite ”Lope de Vega.” He
had previously introduced to the notice of the ladies several of the Fray’s lit-
tle treatises, which contained a large amount of Scripture truth, so cautiously
expressed as to have not only escaped the censure, but actually obtained the ex-
press approbation of the Holy Office. He had also induced them occasionally to
accompany him to the preachings at the Cathedral. Further than this he dared
not go; nor did he on other accounts think it advisable, as yet, to permit himself
much communication with Doña Beatriz.
The monks of San Isodro welcomed him with that strong, peculiar love
which springs up between the disciples of the same Lord, more especially when
they are a little flock surrounded by enemies. They knew that he was already one
of the initiated, a regular member of Losada’s congregation. Both this fact, and
the warm recommendations of Fray Cassiodoro, led them to trust him implicitly;
and very quickly they made him a sharer in their secrets, their difficulties, and
their perplexities.
To his astonishment, he found himself in the midst of a community, Protes-
tant in heart almost to a man, and as far as possible acting out their convictions;
while at the same time they retained (how could they discard them?) the outward
ceremonies of their Church and their Order.
He soon fraternized with a gentle, pious young monk named Fray Fer-
nando, and asked him to explain this extraordinary state of things.
”I am but just out of my novitiate, having been here little more than a year,”
said the young man, who was about his own age; ”and already, when I came, the
 lxxix

fathers carefully instructed the novices out of the Scriptures, exhorting us to lay
no stress upon outward ceremonies, penances, crosses, holy water, and the like.
But I have often heard them speak of the manner in which they were led to adopt
these views.”
”Who was their teacher? Fray Cassiodoro?”
”Latterly; not at first. It was Dr. Blanco who sowed the first seed of truth
here.”
”Whom do you mean? We in the city give the name of Dr. Blanco (the
white doctor), from his silver hairs, to a man of your holy order, certainly, but
one most zealous for the old faith. He is a friend and confidant of the Inquisitors,
if indeed he is not himself a Qualificator of Heresy:[#] I speak of Dr. Garçias
Ariâs.”

[#] One of the learned men who were appointed to assist the Inquisition, and whose duty it was to
decide whether doubtful propositions were, or were not, heretical.

”The same man. You are astonished, señor; nevertheless it is true. The elder
brethren say that when he came to the convent all were sunk in ignorance and
superstition. The monks cared for nothing but vain repetitions of unfelt prayers,
and showy mummeries of idle ceremonial But the white doctor told them all
these would avail them nothing, unless their hearts were given to God, and they
worshipped him in spirit and in truth. They listened, were convinced, began to
study the Holy Scriptures as he recommended them, and truly to seek Him who
is revealed therein.”
”’Out of the eater came forth meat,’” said Carlos. ”I am truly amazed to hear
of such teaching from the lips of Garçias Ariâs.”
”Not more amazed than the brethren were by his after conduct,” returned
Fray Fernando. ”Just when they had received the truth with joy, and were begin-
ning heartily to follow it, their teacher suddenly changed his tone, and addressed
himself diligently to the task of building up the things that he once destroyed.
When Lent came round, the burden of his preaching was nothing but penance
and mortification of the flesh. No less would content him than that the poor
brethren should sleep on the bare ground, or standing; and wear sackcloth and
iron girdles. They could not tell what to make of these bewildering instructions.
Some followed them, others clung to the simpler faith they had learned to love,
many tried to unite both. In fact, the convent was filled with confusion, and
several of the brethren were driven half distracted. But at last God put it into
their hearts to consult Dr. Egidius. Your Excellency is well acquainted with his
lxxx

history, doubtless!”
”Not so well as I should like to be. Still, for the present, let us keep to the
brethren. Did Dr. Egidius confirm their faith?”
”That he did, señor; and in many ways he led them into a further acquain-
tance with the truth.”
”And that enigma, Dr. Blanco?”
Fray Fernando shook his head. ”Whether his mind was really changed,
or whether he concealed his true opinions through fear, or through love of the
present world, I know not I should not judge him.”
”No,” said Carlos, softly. ”It is not for us, who have never been tried, to
judge those who have failed in the day of trial. But it must be a terrible thing to
fail, Fray Fernando.”
”As good Dr. Egidius did himself. Ah, señor, if you had but seen him when
he came forth from his prison! His head was bowed, his hair was white; they who
spoke with him say his heart was well-nigh broken. Still he was comforted, and
thanked God, when he saw the progress the truth had made during his impris-
onment, both in Valladolid and in Seville, especially amongst the brethren here.
His visit was of great use to us. But the most precious boon we ever received
was a supply of God’s Word in our own tongue, which was brought to us some
months ago.”
Carlos looked at him eagerly. ”I think I know whose hand brought it,” he
said.
”You cannot fail to know, señor. You have doubtless heard of Juliano El
Chico?”
The colour rose to the cheek of Carlos as he answered, ”I shall thank God
all my life, and beyond it, that I have not heard of him alone, but met him. He it
was who put this book into my hand,” and he drew out his own Testament.
”We also have good cause to thank him. And we mean that others shall
have it through us. For the books he brought we not only use ourselves, but
diligently circulate far and wide, according to our ability.”
”It is strange to know so little of a man, and yet to owe him so much. Can
you tell me anything more than the name, Juliano Hernandez, which I repeat
every day when I ask God in my prayers to bless and reward him?”
”I only know he is a poor, unlearned man, a native of Villaverda, in Campos.
He went to Germany, and entered the service of Juan Peres, who, as you are
aware, translated the Testament, and printed it, Juliano aiding in the work as
compositor. He then undertook, of his own free will, the task of bringing a supply
into this country; you well know how perilous a task, both the sea-ports and the
passes of the Pyrenees being so closely watched by the emissaries of the Holy
Office. Juliano chose the overland journey, since, knowing the mountains well,
 lxxxi

he thought he could manage to make his way unchallenged by some of their

hazardous, unfrequented paths. God be thanked, he arrived in safety with his
precious freight early last summer.”
”Do you know where he is now?”
”No. Doubtless he is wandering somewhere, perhaps not far distant, car-
rying on, in darkness and silence, his noble missionary work.”
”What would I give–rather, what would I not give–to see him once more,
to take his hand in mine, and to thank him for what he has done for me!”
”Ah, there is the vesper bell. You know, señor, that Fray Cristobal is to
lecture this evening on the Epistle to the Hebrews. That is why I love Tuesday
best of all days in the week.”
Fray Cristobal D’Arellano was a monk of San Isodro, remarkable for his
great learning, which was consecrated to the task of explaining and spreading the
Reformed doctrines. Carlos put himself under the tuition of this man, to perfect
his knowledge of Greek, a language of which he had learned very little, and that
little very imperfectly, at Alcala. He profited exceedingly by the teaching he
received, and partially repaid the obligation by instructing the novices in Latin,
a task which was very congenial to him, and which he performed with much
success.

XV.
The Great Sanbenito.

”The thousands that, uncheered by praise,

Have made one offering of their days;
For Truth’s, for Heaven’s, for Freedom’s sake.
Resigned the bitter cup to take.”–Hemans

Young as was the Protestant Church in Seville, she already had her history.

There was one name that Carlos had heard mentioned in connection with her
first origin, round which there gathered in his thoughts a peculiar interest, or
rather fascination. He knew now that the monks of San Isodro had been largely
indebted to the instructions of Doctor Juan Gil, or Egidius. And he had been told
previously that Egidius himself had learned the truth from an earlier and bolder
lxxxii

witness, Rodrigo de Valer. This was the name that Losada once coupled in his
hearing with that of his own father.
Why then had he not sought information, which might have proved so
deeply interesting to him, directly from Losada himself, his friend and teacher?
Several causes contributed to his reluctance to broach the subject. But by far
the greatest was a kind of chivalrous, half romantic tenderness for that absent
brother, whom he could now truly say that he loved best on earth. It is very
difficult for us to put ourselves in the position of Spaniards of the sixteenth cen-
tury, so far as at all to understand the way in which they were accustomed to look
upon heresy. In their eyes it was not only a crime, infinitely more dreadful than
that of murder; it was also a horrible disgrace, branding a man’s whole lineage
up and down for generations, and extending its baleful influence to his remotest
kindred. Carlos asked himself, day by day, how would the high-hearted Don
Juan Alvarez, whose idol was glory, and his dearest pride a noble and venerated
name, endure to hear that his beloved and only brother was stained with that
surpassing infamy? But at least it would be anguish enough to stab Juan once, as
it were, with his own hand, without arming the dead hand of the father whose
memory they both revered, and then driving home the weapon into his brother’s
heart. Rather would he let the matter remain in obscurity, even if (which was
extremely doubtful) he could by any effort of his own shed a ray of light upon it.
Still he took occasion one day to inquire of his friend Fray Fernando, who
had received full information on these subjects from the older monks, ”Was not
that Rodrigo de Valer, whose sanbenito hangs in the Cathedral, the first teacher
of the pure faith in Seville?”
”True, señor, he taught many. While he himself, as I have heard, received
the faith from none save God only.”
”He must have been a remarkable man. Tell me all you know of him.”
”Our Fray Cassiodoro has often heard Dr. Egidius speak of him; so that,
though his lips were silenced long before your time or mine, señor, he seems still
one of our company.”
”Yes, already some of our number have joined the Church triumphant, but
they are still one with us in Christ.”
”Don Rodrigo de Valer,” continued the young monk, ”was of a noble family,
and very wealthy. He was born at Lebrixa, but came to reside in Seville, a gay,
light-hearted, brilliant young caballero, who was soon a leader in all the folly
and fashion of the great city. But suddenly these things lost their charm for him.
Much to the astonishment of the gay world, to which he had been such an orna-
ment, he disappeared from the scenes of amusement and festivity he had been
wont to love. His companions could not understand the change that came over
him–but we can understand it well. God’s arrows of conviction were sharp in his
 lxxxiii

heart. And he led him to turn for comfort, not to penance and self-mortification,
but to his own Word. Only in one form was that Word accessible to him. He
gathered up the fragments of his old school studies–little cared for at the time,
and well-nigh forgotten afterwards–to enable him to read the Vulgate. There he
found justification by faith, and, through it, peace to his troubled conscience. But
he did not find, as I need scarcely say to you, Don Carlos, purgatory, the worship
of Our Lady and the saints, and certain other things our fathers taught us.”
”How long since was all this?” asked Carlos, who was listening with much
interest, and at the same time comparing the narrative with that other story he
had heard from Dolores.
”Long enough, señor. Twenty years ago or more. When God had thus en-
lightened him, he returned to the world. But he returned to it a new man, deter-
mined henceforth to know nothing save Christ and him crucified. He addressed
himself in the first instance to the priests and monks, whom, with a boldness
truly amazing, he accosted wherever he met them, were it even in the most pub-
lic places of the city, proving to them from Scripture that their doctrines were
not the truth of God.”
”It was no hopeful soil in which to sow the Word.”
”No, truly; but it seemed laid upon him as a burden from God to speak
what he felt and knew, whether men would hear or whether they would for-
bear. He very soon aroused the bitter enmity of those who hate the light because
their deeds are evil. Had he been a poor man, he would have been burned at the
stake, as that brave, honest-hearted young convert, Francisco de San Romano,
was burned at Valladolid not so long ago, saying to those who offered him mercy
at the last, ’Did you envy me my happiness?’ But Don Rodrigo’s rank and con-
nections saved him from that fate. I have heard, too, that there were those in high
places who shared, or at least favoured his opinions in secret. Such interceded
for him.”
”Then his words were received by some?” Carlos asked anxiously. ”Have
you ever heard the names of any of those who were his friends or patrons?”
Fray Fernando shook his head. ”Even amongst ourselves, señor,” he said,
”names are not mentioned oftener than is needful. For ’a bird of the air will carry
the matter;’ and when life depends on our silence, it is no wonder if at last we
become a trifle over-silent. In the lapse of years, some names that ought to be
remembered amongst us may well chance to be forgotten, from this dread of
breathing them, even in a whisper. Always excepting Dr. Egidius, Don Rodrigo’s
friends or converts are unknown to me. But I was about to say, the Inquisitors
were prevailed upon, by those who interceded for him, to regard him as insane.
They dismissed him, therefore, with no more severe penalty than the loss of his
property, and with many cautions as to his future behaviour.”
lxxxiv

”I hold it scarce likely that he observed them.”

”Very far otherwise, señor. For a short time, indeed, his friends prevailed
on him to express his sentiments more privately; and Fray Cassiodoro says that
during this interval he confirmed them in the faith by expounding the Epistle to
the Romans. But he could not long hide the light he held. To all remonstrances
he answered, that he was a soldier sent on a forlorn hope, and must needs press
forward to the breach. If he fell, it mattered not; in his place God would raise up
others, whose would be the glory and the joy of victory. So, once again, the Holy
Office laid its grasp upon him. It was resolved that his voice should be heard no
more on earth; and he was therefore consigned to the living death of perpetual
imprisonment. And yet, in spite of all their care and all their malice, one more
testimony for God and his truth was heard from his lips.”
”How was that?”
”They led him, robed in that great sanbenito you have often seen, to the
Church of San Salvador, to sit and listen, with the other weeping penitents, while
some ignorant priest denounced their heresies and blasphemies. But he was not
afraid after the sermon to stand up in his place, and warn the people against the
preacher’s erroneous doctrine, showing them where and how it differed from
the Word of God. It is marvellous they did not burn him; but God restrained the
remainder of their wrath. They sent him at last to the monastery of San Lucar,
where he remained in solitary confinement until his death.”
Carlos mused a little. Then he said, ”What a blessed change, from soli-
tary confinement to the company of just men made perfect; from the gloom of a
convent prison to the glory of God’s house, eternal in the heavens!”
”Some of the elder brethren say we may be called upon to pass through
trials even more severe,” remarked Fray Fernando. ”I know not. Being amongst
the youngest here, I should speak my mind with humility; still I cannot help
looking around me, and seeing that everywhere men are receiving the Word of
God with joy. Think of the learned and noble men and women in the city who
have joined our band already, and are eager to gain others! New converts are won
for us every day; not to speak of that great multitude among Fray Constantino’s
hearers who are really on our side, without dreaming it themselves. Moreover,
your noble friend, Don Carlos de Seso, told us last summer that the signs in the
north are equally encouraging. He thinks the Lutherans of Valladolid are more
numerous than those of Seville. In Toro and Logrono also the light is spreading
rapidly. And throughout the districts near the Pyrenees the Word has free course,
thanks to the Huguenot traders from Béarn.”
”I have heard these things in Seville, and truly my heart rejoices at them.
But yet–” here Carlos broke off suddenly, and remained silent, gazing mournfully
into the fire, near which, as it was now winter, they had seated themselves.
 lxxxv

At last Fray Fernando asked, ”What do you think, señor?”

Carlos raised his dark blue eyes and fixed them on the questioner’s face.
”Of the future,” he said slowly, ”I think—nothing. I dare not think of it. It
is in God’s hand, and he thinks for us. Still, one thing I cannot choose but see.
Where we are we cannot remain. We are bound to a great wheel that is turning–
turning–and turn with it, even in spite of ourselves, we must and do. But it is the
wheel, not of chance, but of God’s mighty purposes; that is all our comfort.”
”And those purposes, are they not mercy and truth unto our beloved land?”
”They may be; but I know not. They are not revealed. ’Mercy and truth
unto such as keep his covenant,’ that indeed is written.”
”We are they that keep his covenant.”
Carlos sighed, and resumed the thread of his own thought,–
”The wheel turns round, and we with it. Even since I came here it has
turned perceptibly. And how it is to turn one step further without bringing us
into contact with the solid frame of things as they are, and so crushing us, truly
I see not. I see not; but I trust God.”
”You allude to these discussions about the sacrifice of the mass now going
on so continually amongst us?”
”I do. Hitherto we have been able to work underground; but if doubt must
be thrown upon that, the thin shell of earth that has concealed and protected us,
will break and fall in upon our heads. And then?”
”Already we are all asking, ’And then?’” said Fray Fernando. ”There will
be nothing before us but flight to some foreign land.”
”And how, in God’s name, is that to be accomplished? But God forgive me
these words; and God keep me, and all of us, from the subtle snare of mixing
with the question, ’What is his will?’ that other question, ’What will be our fate
if we try to do it?’ As the noble De Seso said to me, all that matters to us is to
be found amongst those who ’follow the Lamb whithersoever he goeth.’ But he
went to Calvary.”
The last words were spoken in so low a tone that Fray Fernando heard them
not.
”What did you say?” he asked.
”No matter. Time enough to hear if God himself speaks it in our ears.”
Their conversation was interrupted by the entrance of a lay brother, who
informed Carlos that a visitor awaited him in the convent parlour. As it was
one of the hours during which the rules of the house (which were quite liberal
enough, without being lax) permitted the entertainment of visitors, Carlos went
to receive his without much delay.
He knew that if the guest had been one of ”their own,” their loved brethren
in the faith, even the attendant would have been well acquainted with his person,
lxxxvi

and would naturally have named him. He entered the room, therefore, with no
very lively anticipations; expecting, at most, to see one of his cousins, who might
have paid him the compliment of riding out from the city to visit him.
A tall, handsome, sunburnt man, who had his left arm in a sling, was stand-
ing with his back to the window. But in one moment more the other arm was
flung round the neck of Carlos, and heart pressed to heart, and lip to lip–the
brothers stood together.

XVI.
Welcome Home.

”We are so unlike each other,

Thou and I, that none would guess
We were children of one mother,
But for mutual tenderness.”–E. B. Browning

After the first tumult of greeting, in which affection was expressed rather by

look and gesture than by word, the brothers sat down and talked. Eager questions
rose to the lips of both, but especially to those of Carlos, whose surprise at Juan’s
unexpected appearance only equalled his delight.
”But you are wounded, my brother,” he said. ”Not seriously, I hope?”
”Oh no! Only a bullet through my arm. A piece of my usual good luck. I
got it in The Battle.”
No adjective was needed to specify the glorious day of St. Quentin, when
Flemish Egmont’s chivalrous courage, seconded by Castilian bravery, gained for
King Philip such a brilliant victory over the arms of France. Carlos knew the story
already from public sources. And it did not occur to Juan, nor indeed to Carlos
either, that there had ever been, or would ever be again, a battle so worthy of
being held in everlasting remembrance.
”But do you count the wound part of your good luck!” asked Carlos.
”Ay, truly, and well I may. It has brought me home; as you ought to have
known ere this.”
”I received but two letters from you–that written on your first arrival, and
 lxxxvii

dated from Cambray; and that which told of your notable prize, the French pris-
oner.”
”But I wrote two others: one, I entrusted to a soldier who was coming home
invalided–I suppose the fellow lost it; the other (written just after the great St.
Laurence’s day) arrived in Seville the night before I made my own appearance
there. His Majesty will need to look to his posts; certes, they are the slowest car-
riers to be found in any Christian country.” And Juan’s merry laugh rang through
the convent parlour, little enough used to echo such sounds.
”So I have heard almost nothing of you, brother; save what could be gath-
ered from the public accounts,” Carlos continued.
”All the better now. I have only such news as is pleasant for me to tell;
and will not be ill, I think, for thee to hear. First, then, and in due order–I am
promised my company!”
”Good news, indeed! My brother must have honoured our name by some
special deed of valour. Was it at St. Quentin?” asked Carlos, looking at him with
honest, brotherly pride. He was not much changed by his campaign, except that
his dark cheek wore a deeper bronze, and his face was adorned with a formidable
pair of bigotes.
”That story must wait,” returned Juan. ”I have so much else to tell thee.
Dost thou remember how I said, as a boy, that I should take a noble prisoner, like
Alphonso Vives, and enrich myself by his ransom? And thou seest I have done
it.”
”In a good day! Still, he was not the Duke of Saxony.”
”Like him, at least, in being a heretic, or Huguenot, if that be a less un-
savoury word to utter in these holy precincts. Moreover, he is a tried and trusted
officer of Admiral Coligny’s suite. It was that day when the admiral so gallantly
threw himself into the besieged town. And, for my part, I am heartily obliged to
him. But for his presence, there would have been no defence of St. Quentin, to
speak of, at all; but for the defence, no battle; but for the battle, no grand victory
for the Spains and King Philip. We cut off half of the admiral’s troops, however,
and it fell to my lot to save the life of a brave French officer whom I saw fighting
alone amongst a crowd. He gave me his sword; and I led him to my tent, and
provided him with all the solace and succour I could, for he was sorely wounded.
He was the Sieur de Ramenais; a gentleman of Provence, and an honest, merry-
hearted, valiant man, as it was ever my lot to meet withal. He shared my bed and
board, a pleasant guest rather than a prisoner, until we took the town, making
the admiral himself our captive, as you know already. By that time, his brother
had raised the sum for his ransom, and sent it honourably to me. But, in any
case, I should have dismissed him on parole, as soon as his wounds were healed.
He was pleased to give me, beside the good gold pistoles, this diamond ring you
lxxxviii

see on my finger, in token of friendship.”

Carlos took the costly trinket in his hand, and duly admired it. He did not
fail to gather from Juan’s simple narrative many things that he told not, and was
little likely to tell. In the time of action, chivalrous daring; when the conflict was
over, gentleness and generosity no less chivalrous, endearing him to all–even to
the vanquished enemy. No wonder Carlos was proud of his brother! But beneath
all the pride and joy there was, even already, a secret whisper of fear. How could
he bear to see that noble brow clouded with anger–those bright confiding eyes
averted from him in disdain? Turning from his own thoughts as if they had been
guilty things, he asked quickly,–
”But how did you obtain leave of absence?”
”Through the kindness of his Highness.”
”The Duke of Savoy?”
”Of course. And a braver general I would never ask to serve.”
”I thought it might have been from the King himself, when he came to the
camp after the battle.”
Don Juan’s cheek glowed with modest triumph. ”His Highness was good
enough to point me out to His Catholic Majesty,” he said. ”And the King spoke
to me himself!”
It is difficult for us to understand how a few formal words of praise from the
lips of one of the meanest and vilest of men could be looked upon by the really
noble-hearted Don Juan Alvarez as almost the crowning joy of his life. With the
enthusiastic loyalty of his age and country he honoured Philip the king; Philip
the man being all the time a personage as utterly unknown to him as the Sultan
of Turkey. But not choosing to expatiate upon a theme so flattering to himself,
he continued,–
”The Duke contrived to send me home with despatches, saying kindly that
he thought my wound required a little rest and care. Though I had affairs of
importance” (and here the colour mounted to his brow) ”to settle in Seville, I
would not have quitted the camp, with my good-will, had we been about any
enterprise likely to give us fair fighting. But in truth, Carlos, things have been
abundantly dull since the fall of St. Quentin. Though we have our King with
us, and Henry of France and the Duke of Guise have both joined the enemy, all
are standing at gaze as if they were frozen, and doomed to stay there motionless
till the day of judgment. I have no mind for that kind of sport, not I! I became
a soldier to fight His Catholic Majesty’s battles, not to stare at his enemies as if
they were puppets paid to make a show for my amusement. So I was not sorry
to take leave of absence.”
”And your important business in Seville. May a brother ask what that
means?”
 lxxxix

”A brother may ask what he pleases, and be answered. Wish me joy, Carlos;
I have arranged that little matter with Doña Beatriz.” And his light words half hid,
half revealed the great deep joy of his own strong heart. ”My uncle,” he continued,
”is favourable to my views; indeed, I have never known him so friendly. We are
to have our betrothal feast at Christmas, when your time of retreat here is over.”
Carlos ”wished him joy” most sincerely. Fervently did he thank God that
it was in his power to do it; that the snare that had once wound itself so subtly
around his footsteps was broken, and his soul escaped. He could now meet his
brother’s eye without self-reproach. Still, this seemed sudden. He said, ”Cer-
tainly you did not lose time.”
”Why should I?” asked Juan with simplicity. ”’By-and-by is always too late,’
as thou wert wont to say; and I would they learned that proverb at the camp. In
truth,” he added more gravely, ”I often feared, during my stay there, that I might
have lost all through my tardiness. But thou wert a good brother to me, Carlos.”
”Mayest thou ever think so, brother mine,” said Carlos, not without a pang,
as his conscience told him how little he deserved the praise.
”But what in the world,” asked Juan hastily, ”has induced thee to bury thy-
self here, amongst these drowsy monks?”
”The brethren are excellent men, learned and pious. And I am not buried,”
Carlos returned with a smile.
”And if thou wert buried ten fathoms deep, thou shouldst come up out of
the grave when I need thee to stand beside me.”
”Do not fear for that. Now thou art come, I will not prolong my stay here,
as otherwise I might have done. But I have been very happy here, Juan.”
”I am glad to hear it,” said the merry-hearted, unsuspecting Juan. ”I am
glad also that you are not in too great haste to tie yourself down to the Church’s
service; though our honoured uncle seems to wish you had a keener eye to your
own interest, and a better look-out for fat benefices. But I believe his own sons
have appropriated all the stock of worldly prudence meant for the whole family,
leaving none over for thee and me, Carlos.”
”That is true of Don Manuel and Don Balthazar, not of Gonsalvo.”
”Gonsalvo! he is far the worst of the three,” Juan exclaimed, with something
like anger in his open, sunny face.
Carlos laughed. ”I suppose he has been favouring you with his opinion of
me,” he said.
”If he were not a poor miserable weakling and cripple, I should answer
him with the point of my good sword. However, this is idle talk. Little brother”
(Carlos being nearly as tall as himself, the diminutive was only a term of affection,
recalling the days of their childhood, and more suited to masculine lips than its
equivalent, dear)–”little brother, you look grave and pale, and ten years older
xc

than when we parted at Alcala.”

”Do I? Much has happened with me since. I have been very sorrowful and
very happy.”
Don Juan laid his available hand on his brother’s shoulder, and looked him
earnestly in the face. ”No secrets from me, little brother,” he said. ”If thou dost
not like the service of Holy Church after all, speak out, and thou shall go back
with me to France, or to anywhere else in the known world that thou wilt. There
may be some fair lady in the case,” he added, with a keen and searching glance.
”No, brother–not that I have indeed much to tell thee, but not now–not
to-day.”
”Choose thine own time; only remember, no secrets. That were the one
unbrotherly act I could never forgive.”
”But I am not yet satisfied about your wound,” said Carlos, with perhaps a
little moral cowardice, turning the conversation. ”Was the bone broken?”
”No, fortunately; only grazed. It would not have signified, but for the treat-
ment of the blundering barber-surgeon. I was advised to show it to some man of
skill; and already my cousins have recommended to me one who is both physi-
cian and surgeon, and very able, they say.”
”Dr. Cristobal Losada?”
”The same. Your favourite, Don Gonsalvo, has just been prevailed upon to
make trial of his skill.”
”I am heartily glad of it,” returned Carlos. ”There is a change of mind on
his part, equal to any wherewith he can reproach me; and a change for the better,
I have little doubt.”
Thus the conversation wandered on; touching many subjects, exhausting
none; and never again drawing dangerously near those deep places which one of
the brothers knew must be thoroughly explored, and that at no distant day. For
Juan’s sake, for the sake of One whom he loved even more than Juan, he dared
not–nay, he would not–avoid the task. But he needed, or thought he needed,
consideration and prayer, that he might speak the truth wisely, as well as bravely,
to that beloved brother.

XVII.
Disclosures.
 xci

”No distance breaks the tie of blood;

Brothers are brothers evermore;
Nor wrong, nor wrath of deadliest mood,
That magic may o’erpower.”–Keble

The opportunity for free converse with his brother which Carlos desired, yet

dreaded, was unexpectedly postponed. It would have been in accordance neither

with the ideas of the time nor with his own feelings to have shortened his period
of retreat in the monastery, though he would not now prolong it. And though
Don Juan did not fail to make his appearance upon every day when visitors were
admitted, he was always accompanied by either of his cousins Don Manuel or
Don Balthazar, or by both. These shallow, worldly-minded young men were lit-
tle likely to allow for the many things, in which strangers might not intermeddle,
that brothers long parted might find to say to each other; they only thought that
they were conferring a high honour on their poorer relatives by their favour and
notice. In their presence the conversation was necessarily confined to the inci-
dents of Juan’s campaign, and to family matters. Whether Don Balthazar would
obtain a post he was seeking under Government; whether Doña Sancha would
eventually bestow the inestimable favour of her hand upon Don Beltran Vivarez
or Don Alonso de Giron; and whether the disappointed suitor would stab himself
or his successful rival;–these were questions of which Carlos soon grew heartily
weary. But in all that concerned Beatrix he was deeply interested. Whatever he
may once have allowed himself to fancy about the sentiments of a very young
and childish girl, he never dreamed that she would make, or even desire to make,
any opposition to the expressed wish of her guardian, who destined her for Juan.
He was sure that she would learn quickly enough to love his brother as he de-
served, even if she did not already do so. And it gave him keen pleasure that his
sacrifice had not been in vain; that the wine-cup of joy which he had just tasted,
then put steadily aside, was being drained to the dregs by the lips he loved best.
It is true this pleasure was not yet unmixed with pain, but the pain was less than
a few months ago he would have believed possible. The wound which he once
thought deadly, was in process of being healed; nay, it was nearly healed already.
But the scar would always remain.
Grand and mighty, but perplexing and mournful thoughts were filling his
heart every day more and more. Amongst the subjects eagerly and continually
discussed with the brethren of San Isodro, the most prominent just now was the
sole priesthood of Christ, with the impossibility of his one perfect and sufficient
sacrifice being ever repeated.
But these truths, in themselves so glorious, had for those who dared to ad-
xcii

mit them one terrible consequence. Their full acknowledgment would transform
”the main altar’s consummation,” the sacrifice of the mass, from the highest act of
Christian worship into a hideous lie, dishonouring to God, and ruinous to man.
To this conclusion the monks of San Isodro were drawing nearer slowly
but surely every day. And Carlos was side by side with the most advanced of
them in the path of progress. Though timid in action, he was bold in speculation.
To his keen, quick intellect to think and to reason was a necessity; he could not
rest content with surface truths, nor leave any matter in which he was interested
without probing it to its depths.
But as far at least as the monks were concerned, the conclusion now im-
minent was practically a most momentous one. It must transform the light that
illuminated them into a fire that would burn and torture the hands that held
and tried to conceal it. They could only guard themselves from loss and injury,
perhaps from destruction, by setting it on the candlestick of a true and faithful
profession.
”Better,” said the brethren to each other, ”leave behind us the rich lands and
possessions of our order; what are these things in comparison to a conscience
void of offence towards God and towards man? Let us go forth and seek shelter
in some foreign land, destitute exiles but faithful witnesses for Christ, having
purchased to ourselves the liberty of confessing his name before men.” This plan
was the most popular with the community; though there were some that objected
to it, not because of the loss of worldly wealth it would entail, but because of its
extreme difficulty, and the peril in which it would involve others.
That the question might be fully discussed and some course of action re-
solved upon, the monks of San Isodro convened a solemn chapter. Carlos had
not, of course, the right to be present, though his friends would certainly inform
him immediately afterwards of all that passed. So he whiled away part of the
anxious hours by a walk in the orange grove belonging to the monastery. It was
now December, and there had been a frost–not very usual in that mild climate.
Every blade of grass was gemmed with tiny jewels, which were crushed by his
footsteps as he passed along. He fancied them like the fair and sparkling, but un-
real dreams of the creed in which he had been nurtured. They must perish; even
should he weakly turn aside to spare them, God’s sun would not fail ere long
to dissolve them with the warmth of its beams. But wherefore mourn them?
Would not the sun shine on still, and the blue sky, the emblem of eternal truth
and love, still stretch above his head? Therefore he would look up–up, and not
down. Forgetting the things that were behind, and reaching forth unto those that
were before, he would fain press forward towards the mark for the prize. And
then his heart went up in fervent prayer that not only he himself, but also all
those who shared his faith, might be enabled so to do.
 xciii

Turning into a path leading back through the grove to the monastery, he
saw his brother coming towards him.
”I was seeking thee,” said Don Juan.
”And always welcome. But why so early? On a Friday too?”
”Wherein is Friday worse than Thursday?” asked Juan with a laugh. ”You
are not a monk, or even a novice, to be bound by rules so strict that you may not
say, ’Vaya con Dios’ to your brother without asking leave of my lord Abbot.”
Carlos had often noticed, not with displeasure, the freedom which Juan
since his return assumed in speaking of Churchmen and Church ordinances. He
answered, ”I am only bound by the general rules of the house, to which it is
seemly that visitors should conform. To-day the brethren are holding a Chapter
to confer upon matters pertaining to their discipline. I cannot well bring you
in-doors; but we do not need a better parlour than this.”
”True. I care for no roof save God’s sky; and as for glazed and grated win-
dows, I abhor them. Were I thrown into prison, I should die in a week. I made
an early start for San Isodro, on an unusual day, to get rid of the company of my
excellent but tiresome cousins; for in truth I am sick unto death of their talk and
their courtesies. Moreover, I have ten thousand things to tell you, brother.”
”I have a few for your ear also.”
”Let us sit down. Here is a pleasant seat which some of your brethren
contrived to rest their weary limbs and enjoy the prospect. They know how to
be comfortable, these monks.”
They sat down accordingly. For more than an hour Don Juan was the chief
speaker; and as he spoke out of the abundance of his heart, it was no wonder that
the name oftenest on his lips was that of Doña Beatriz. Of the long and circum-
stantial story that he poured into the sympathizing ear of Carlos no more than
this is necessary to repeat–that Beatriz not only did not reject him (no well-bred
Spanish girl would behave in such a singular manner to a suitor recommended
by her guardian), but actually looked kindly, nay, even smiled upon him. His
exhilaration was in consequence extreme; and its expression might have proved
tedious to any listener not deeply interested in his welfare.
At last, however, the subject was dismissed. ”So my path lies clear and
plain before me,” said Juan, his fine determined face glowing with resolution and
hope. ”A soldier’s life, with its toils and prizes; and a happy home at Nuera, with
a sweet face to welcome me when I return. And, sooner or later, that voyage to
the Indies. But you, Carlos–speak out, for I confess you perplex me–what do you
wish and intend?”
”Had you asked me that question a few months, I might almost say a few
weeks, ago, I should not have hesitated, as now I do, for an answer.”
”You were ever willing, more than willing, for Holy Church’s service. I
xciv

know but one cause which could alter your mind; and to the tender accusation
you have already pleaded not guilty.”
”The plea is a true one.”
”Certes; it cannot be that you have been seized with a sudden passion for a
soldier’s life,” laughed Juan. ”That was never your taste, little brother; and with
all respect for you, I scarce think your achievements with sword and arquebus
would be specially brilliant. But there is something wrong with you,” he said in
an altered tone, as he gazed in his brother’s anxious face.
”Not wrong, but–”
”I have it!” said Juan, joyously interrupting him. ”You are in debt. That
is soon mended, brother. In fact, it is my fault. I have had far too large a share
already of what should have been for both of us alike. In future–”
”Hush, brother. I have always had enough, more than I needed. And thou
hast many expenses, and wilt have more henceforward, whilst I shall only want
a doublet and hosen, and a pair of shoes.”
”And a cassock and gown?”
Carlos was silent.
”I vow it is a harder task to comprehend you than to chase Coligny’s guard
with my single arm! And you so pious, so good a Christian! If you were a dull
rough soldier like me, and if you had had a Huguenot prisoner (and a very fine
fellow, too) to share your bed and board for months, one could comprehend your
not liking certain things over well, or even”–and Juan averted his face and low-
ered his voice–”your having certain evil thoughts you would scarcely care to
breathe in the ears of your father confessor.”
”Brother, I too have had thoughts,” said Carlos eagerly.
But Juan suddenly tossed off his montero, and ran his fingers through his
black glossy hair. In old times this gesture used to be a sign that he was going to
speak seriously. After a moment he began, but with a little hesitation, for in fact
he held the mind of Carlos in as true and unfeigned reverence as Carlos held his
character. And that is enough to say, without mentioning the additional respect
with which he regarded him, as almost a priest. ”Brother Carlos, you are good
and pious. You were thus from childhood; and therefore it is that you are fit for
the service of Holy Church. You rise and go to rest, you read your books, and
tell your beads, and say your prayers, all just as you are ordered. It is the best
life for you, and for any man who can live it, and be content with it. You do not
sin, you do not doubt; therefore you will never come into any grief or trouble.
But let me tell you, little brother, you have a scant notion what men meet with
who go forth into the great world and fight their way in it; seeing on every side
of them things that, take them as they may, will not always square with the faith
they have learned in childhood.”
 xcv

”Brother, I also have struggled and suffered. I also have doubted.”

”Oh yes, a Churchman’s doubts! You had only to tell yourself doubt was a
sin, to make the sign of the cross, to say an Ave or two, then there was an end
of your doubts. ’Twere a different matter if you had the evil one in the shape of
an angel of light–at least in that of a courteous, well-bred Huguenot gentleman,
with as nice a sense of honour as any Catholic Christian–at your side continually,
to whisper that the priests are no better than they ought to be, that the Church
needs reform; and Heaven knows what more, and worse, beside.–Now, my pious
brother, if thou art going to curse me with bell, book, and candle, begin at once.
I am ready, and prepared to be duly penitent. Let me first put on my cap though,
for it is cold,” and he suited the action to the word.
The voice in which Carlos answered him was low and tremulous with emo-
tion. ”Instead of cursing thee, brother beloved, I bless thee from my heart for
words which give me courage to speak. I have doubted–nay, why should I shrink
from the truth! I have learned, as I believe, from God himself, that some things
which the Church teaches as her doctrines are only the commandments of men.”
Don Juan started, and his colour changed. His vaguely liberal ideas were
far from having prepared him for this. ”What do you mean?” he cried, staring at
his brother in amazement.
”That I am now, in very truth, what I think you would call–a Huguenot.”
The die was cast. The avowal was made. Carlos waited its effects in breath-
less silence, as one who has fired a powder magazine might await the explosion.
”May all the holy saints have mercy upon us!” cried Juan, in a voice that
echoed through the grove. But after that one involuntary cry he was silent. The
eyes of Carlos sought his face, but he turned away from him. At last he muttered,
striking with his sword at the trunk of a tree that was near him, ”Huguenot–
Protestant–heretic!”
”Brother,” said Carlos, rising and standing before him–”brother, say what
thou wilt, only speak to me. Reproach me, curse me, strike me, if it please thee,
only speak to me.”
Juan turned, gazed full in his imploring face, and slowly, very slowly, al-
lowed the sword to fall from his hand. There was a moment of doubt, of hesita-
tion. Then he stretched out that hand to his brother. ”They who list may curse
thee, but not I,” he said.
Carlos strained the offered hand in so close a grasp that his own was cut
by his brother’s diamond ring, and the blood flowed.
For a long time both were silent, Juan in amazement, perhaps in conster-
nation; Carlos in deep thankfulness. His confession was made, and his brother
loved him still.
At last Juan spoke, slowly and as if half bewildered. ”The Sieur de Ramenais
xcvi

believes in God, and in our Lord and his passion. And you?”
Carlos repeated the Apostles’ Creed in the vulgar tongue.
”And in Our Lady, Mary, Mother of God?”
”I believe that she was the most blessed among women, the holiest among
the holy saints. Yet I ask her intercession no more. I am too well assured of His
love who says to me; and to all who keep his word, ’My brother, my sister, my
mother.’”
”I thought devotion to Our Lady was the surest mark of piety,” said Juan,
in utter perplexity. ”Then, I am only a man of the world. But oh, my brother,
this is frightful!” He paused a moment, then added more calmly, ”Still, I have
learned that Huguenots are not beasts with horns and hoofs; but, possibly, brave
and honourable men enough, as good, for this world, as their neighbours. And
yet–the disgrace!” His dark cheek flushed, then grew pale, as there rose before his
mind’s eye an appalling vision–his brother robed in a hideous sanbenito, bearing
a torch in the ghastly procession of an auto-da-fé! ”You have kept your secret as
your life? My uncle and his family suspect nothing?” he asked anxiously.
”Nothing, thank God.”
”And who taught you this accursed–these doctrines?”
Carlos briefly told the story of his first acquaintance with the Spanish New
Testament; suppressing, however, all mention of the personal sorrow that had
made its teaching so precious to him; nor did he think it expedient to give the
name of Juliano Hernandez.
”The Church may need reform. I am sure she does,” Juan candidly admitted.
”But Carlos, my brother,” he added, while the expression of his face softened
gradually into mournful, pitying tenderness, ”little brother, in old times so gentle,
so timid, hast thou dreamed–of the peril? I speak not now of the disgrace–God
wot that is hard enough to think of–hard enough,” he repeated bitterly. ”But the
peril?”
Carlos was silent; his hands were clasped, his eyes raised upwards, full of
thought, perhaps of prayer.
”What is that on thy hand?” asked Juan, with a sudden change of tone.
”Blood? The Sieur de Ramenais’ diamond ring has hurt thee.”
Carlos glanced at the little wound, and smiled. ”I never felt it,” he said, ”so
glad was my heart, Ruy, for that brave grasp of faithful brotherhood.” And there
was a strange light in his eye as he added, ”Perchance it may be thus with me, if
Christ indeed should call me to suffer. Weak as I am, he can give, even to me, such
blessed assurance of his love, that in the joy of it pain and fear shall be unfelt, or
vanish.”
Juan could not understand him, but he was awed and impressed. He had
no heart for many words. He rose and walked towards the gate of the monastery
 xcvii

grounds, slowly and in silence, Carlos accompanying him. When they had nearly
reached the spot where they were to part, Carlos said, ”You have heard Fray
Constantino, as I asked you?”
”Yes, and I greatly admire him.”
”He teaches God’s truth.”
”Why can you not rest content with his teaching, then, instead of going to
look for better bread than wheaten, Heaven knows where?”
”When I return to the city next week I will explain all to thee.”
”I hope so. In the meantime, adios.” He strode on a pace or two, then turned
back to say, ”Thou and I, Carlos, we will stand together against the world.”

XVIII.
The Aged Monk.

”I will not boast a martyr’s might

To leave my home without a sigh–
The dwelling of my past delight,
The shelter where I hoped to die.”–Anon.

Much was Carlos strengthened by the result of his interview with Don Juan.

The thing that he greatly feared, his beloved brother’s wrath and scorn, had not
come upon him. Juan had shown, instead, a moderation, a candour, and a willing-
ness to listen, which, while it really amazed him, inspired him with the happiest
hopes. With a glad heart he repeated the Psalmist’s exulting words: ”The Lord
is my strength and my shield; my heart hath trusted in him and I am helped;
therefore my heart danceth for joy, and in my song will I praise him.”
He soon perceived that the Chapter was over; for figures, robed in white
and brown, were moving here and there amongst the trees. He entered the house,
and without happening to meet any one, made his way to the deserted Chapter-
room. Its sole remaining occupant was a very aged monk, the oldest member of
the community. He was seated at the table, his face buried in his hands, and his
frail, worn frame quivering as if with sobs.
Carlos went up to him and asked gently, ”Father, what ails you?”
xcviii

The old man slowly raised his head, and gazed at him with sad, tired eyes,
which had watched the course of more than eighty years. ”My son,” he said, ”if I
weep, it is for joy.”
Carlos wondered; for he saw no joy on the wrinkled brow or in the tearful
face. But he merely asked, ”What have the brethren resolved?”
”To await God’s providence here. Praised be his holy name for that.” And
the old man bowed his silver head, and wept once more.
To Carlos also the determination was a cause for deep gratitude. He had
all along regarded the proposed flight of the brethren with extreme dread, as an
almost certain means of awakening the suspicions of the Holy Office, and thus
exposing all who shared their faith to destruction. It was no light matter that
the danger was now at least postponed, always provided that the respite was
purchased by no sacrifice of principle.
”Thank God!” reiterated the old monk. ”For here I have lived; and here I
will die and be buried, beside the holy brethren of other days, in the chapel of
Don Alonzo the Good. My son, I came hither a stripling as thou art–no, younger,
younger–I know not how many years ago; one year is so like another, there is no
telling. I could tell by looking at the great book, only my eyes are too dim to read
it. They have grown dim very fast of late; when Doctor Egidius used to visit us, I
could read my Breviary with the youngest of them all. But no matter how many
years. They were many enough to change a blooming, black-haired boy into an
old man tottering on the grave’s brink. And I to go forth now into that great,
wicked world beyond the gate! I to look upon strange faces, and to live amongst
strange men! Or to die amongst them, for to that it would come full soon! No,
no, Señor Don Carlos. Here I took the cowl; here I lived; and here I will die and
be buried, God and the saints helping me!”
”Yet for the Truth’s sake, my father, would you not be willing to make even
this sacrifice, and to go forth in your old age into exile?”
”If the brethren must needs go, so, I suppose, must I. But they are not going,
St. Jerome be praised,” the old man repeated.
”Going or staying, the presence of Him whom they serve and for whom
they witness will be with them.”
”It may be, it may be, for aught I know. But in my young days so many fine
words were not in use. We sang our matins, our complines, our vespers; we said
the holy mass and all our offices, and God and St. Jerome took care of the rest.”
”But you would not have those days back again, would you, my father?
You did not then know the glorious gospel of the grace of God.”
”Gospel, gospel? We always read the gospel for the day. I know my Bre-
viary, young sir, just as well as another. And on festival days, some one always
preached from the gospel. When Fray Domingo preached, plenty of great folks
 xcix

used to come out from the city to hear him. For he was very eloquent, and as
much thought of, in his time, as Fray Cristobal is now. But they are forgotten in
a little while, all of them. So will we, in a few years to come.”
Carlos reproached himself for having named the gospel, instead of Him
whose words and works are the burden of the gospel story. For even to that dull
ear, heavy with age, the name of Jesus was sweet. And that dull mind, drowsy
with the slumber of a long lifetime, had half awaked at least to the consciousness
of his love.
”Dear father,” he said gently, ”I know you are well acquainted with the
gospels. You remember what our blessed Lord saith of those who confess him
before men, how he will not be ashamed to confess them before his Father in
heaven? And, moreover, is it not a joy for us to show, in any way he points out
to us, our love to him who loved us and gave himself for us?”
”Yes, yes, we love him. And he knows I only wish to do what is right, and
what is pleasing in his sight.”
Afterwards, Carlos talked over the events of the day with the younger and
more intelligent brethren; especially with his teacher, Fray Cristobal, and his
particular friend, Fray Fernando. He could but admire the spirit that had guided
their deliberations, and feel increased thankfulness for the decision at which they
had arrived. The peace which the whole community of Spanish Protestants then
enjoyed, perilous and unstable as it was, stood at the mercy of every individual
belonging to that community. The unexplained flight of any obscure member
of Losada’s congregation would have been sufficient to give the alarm, and let
loose the bloodhounds of persecution upon the Church; how much more the
abandonment of a wealthy and honourable religious house by the greater part of
its inmates?
The sword hung over their heads, suspended by a single hair, which a hasty
or incautious movement, a word, a breath even, might suffice to break.

XIX.
Truth and Freedom

”Man is greater than you thought him;

The bondage of long slumber he will break.
c

His just and ancient rights he will reclaim,

With Nero and Busiris he will rank
The name of Philip.”–Schiller

Never before had it fallen to the lot of Don Juan Alvarez to experience such be-

wilderment as that which his brother’s disclosure occasioned him. That brother,
whom he had always regarded as the embodiment of goodness and piety, who
was rendered illustrious in his eyes by all sorts of academic honours, and sanc-
tified by the shadow of the coming priesthood, had actually confessed himself
to be–what he had been taught to hold in deepest, deadliest abomination–a
Lutheran heretic. But, on the other hand, from the wise, pious, and in every
way unexceptionable manner in which Carlos had spoken, Juan could not help
hoping that what, probably through some unaccountable aberration of mind, he
himself persisted in styling Lutheranism, might prove in the end some very harm-
less and orthodox kind of devotion. Perhaps, eventually, his brother might found
some new and holy order of monks and friars. Or even (he was so clever) he
might take the lead in a Reformation of the Church, which, there was no use in
an honest man’s denying, was sorely needed. Still, he could not help admitting
that the Sieur de Ramenais had sometimes expressed himself with nearly as much
apparent orthodoxy; and he was undoubtedly a confirmed heretic–a Huguenot.
But if the recollection of this man, who for months had been his guest
rather than his prisoner, served, from one point of view, to increase his difficul-
ties, from another, it helped to clear away the most formidable of them. Don Juan
had never been religious; but he had always been hotly orthodox, as became a
Castilian gentleman of purest blood, and heir to all the traditions of an ancient
house, foremost for generations in the great conflict with the infidel. He had
been wont to look upon the Catholic faith as a thing bound up irrevocably with
the knightly honour, the stainless fame, the noble pride of his race, and, conse-
quently, with all that was dearest to his heart. Heresy he regarded as something
unspeakably mean and degrading. It was associated in his mind with Jews and
Moors, ”caitiffs,” ”beggarly fellows;” all of them vulgar and unclean, some of them
the hereditary enemies of his race. Heretics were Moslems, infidels, such as ”my
Cid” delighted in hewing down with his good sword Tizona, ”for God and Our
Lady’s honour.” Heretics kept the passover with mysterious, unhallowed rites,
into which it would be best not to inquire; heretics killed (and perhaps ate) Chris-
tian children; they spat upon the cross; they had to wear ugly yellow sanbenitos
at autos-da-fé; and, to sum up all in one word, they ”smelled of the fire.” To give
full weight to the last allusion, it must be remembered that in the eyes of Don
Juan and his cotemporaries, death by fire had no hallowed or ennobling associa-
 ci

tions to veil its horrors. The burning pile was to him what the cross was to our
forefathers, and what the gibbet is to us, only far more disgraceful. Thus it was
not so much his conscience as his honour and his pride that were arrayed against
the new faith.
But, unconsciously to himself, opposition had been silently undermined by
his intercourse with the Sieur de Ramenais. It would probably have been fatal
to Protestantism with Don Juan, had his first specimen of a Protestant been an
humble muleteer. Fortunately, the new opinions had come to him represented
by a noble and gallant knight, who

”In open battle or in tilting field

Forbore his own advantage;”

who was as careful of his ”pundonor”[#] as any Castilian gentleman, and scarcely
yielded even to himself in all those marks of good breeding, which, to say the
truth, Don Juan Alvarez de Santillanos y Meñaya valued far more than any ab-
stract dogmas of faith.

[#] Point of honour.

This circumstance produced a willingness on his part to give fair play to his
brother’s convictions. When Carlos returned to Seville, which he did about a
week after the meeting of the Chapter, he was overjoyed to find Juan ready to
hear all he had to say with patience and candour. Moreover, the young sol-
dier was greatly attracted by the preaching of Fray Constantino, whom he pro-
nounced, in language borrowed from the camp, ”a right good camerado.” Us-
ing these favourable dispositions to the best advantage, Carlos repeated to him
passages from the New Testament; and with deep and prayerful earnestness ex-
plained and enforced the truths they taught, taking care, of course, not unneces-
sarily to shock his prejudices.
And, as time passed on, it became every day more and more apparent that
Don Juan was receiving ”the new ideas;” and that with far less difficulty and
conflict than Carlos himself had done. For with him the Reformed faith had only
prejudices, not convictions, to contend against. These once broken down, the
rest was easy. And then it came to him so naturally to follow the guidance of
Carlos in all that pertained to thinking.
Unmeasured was the joy of the affectionate brother when at last he found
that he might safely venture to introduce him privately to Losada as a promising
cii

inquirer.
In the meantime their outward life passed on smoothly and happily. With
much feasting and rejoicing, Juan was betrothed to Doña Beatriz. He had loved
her devotedly since boyhood; he loved her now more than ever. But his love
was a deep, life-long passion–no sudden delirium of the fancy–so that it did not
render him oblivious of every other tie, and callous to every other impression; it
rather stimulated, and at the same time softened his whole nature. It made him
not less, but more, sensitive to all the exciting and ennobling influences which
were being brought to bear upon him.
In Doña Beatriz Carlos perceived a change that surprised him, while, at the
same time, it made more evident than ever how great would have been his own
mistake, had he accepted the passive gratitude of a child towards one who noticed
and flattered her for the true deep love of a woman’s heart. Doña Beatriz was a
passive child no longer now. On the betrothal day, a proud and beautiful woman
leaned on the arm of his handsome brother, and looked around her upon the
assembled family, queen-like in air and mien, her cheek rivalling the crimson of
the damask rose, her large dark eye beaming with passionate, exulting joy. Carlos
compared her in thought to the fair, carved alabaster lamp that stood on the inlaid
centre table of his aunt’s state receiving-room. Love had wrought in her the
change which light within always did in that, revealing its hidden transparency,
and glorifying its pale, cold whiteness with tints so warmly beautiful, that the
clouds of evening might have envied them.
The betrothal of Doña Sancha to Don Beltran Vivarez quickly followed.
Don Balthazar also succeeded in obtaining the desired Government appointment,
and henceforth enjoyed, much to his satisfaction, the honours and emoluments
of an ”empleado.” To crown the family good fortune, Doña Inez rejoiced in the
birth of a son and heir; while even Don Gonsalvo, not to be left out, acknowl-
edged some improvement in his health, which he attributed to the judicious treat-
ment of Losada. The mind of an intelligent man can scarcely be deeply exercised
upon one great subject, without the result making itself felt throughout the whole
range of his occupations. Losada’s patients could not fail to benefit by his habits
of independent thought and searching investigation, and his freedom from vul-
gar prejudices. This freedom, so rare in his nation, led him occasionally, though
very cautiously, even to hazard the adoption of a few remedies which were not
altogether ”cosas de Espana.”[#]

[#] Things of Spain.

 ciii

The physician deserved less credit for his treatment of Juan’s wounded arm,
which nature healed, almost as soon as her beneficent operations ceased to be
retarded by ignorant and blundering leech-craft.
Don Juan was occasionally heard to utter aspirations for the full restoration
of his cousin Gonsalvo’s health, more hearty in their expression than charitable
in their motive. ”I would give one of my fingers he could ride a horse and handle
a sword, or at least a good foil with the button off, and I would soon make him
repent his bearing and language to thee, Carlos. But what can a man do with a
thing like that, save let him alone for very shame? Yet he is dastard enough to
presume on such toleration, and to strike those whom his own infirmities hinder
from returning the blow.”
”If he could ride a horse or handle a sword, brother, I think you would find
a marvellous change for the better in his bearing and language. That bitterness,
what is it, after all, but the fruit of pain? Or of what is even worse than pain,
repressed force and energy. He would be in the great world doing and daring;
and behold, he is chained to a narrow room, or at best toils with difficulty a few
hundred paces. No wonder that the strong winds, bound in their caverns, moan
and shriek piteously at times. When I hear them I feel far too much compassion
to think of anger. And I would give one of my fingers–nay, I would give my right
hand,” he added with a smile, ”that he shared our blessed hope, Juan, my brother.”
”The most unlikely person of all our acquaintance to become a convert.”
”So say not I. Do you know that he has given money–he that has so little–
more than once to Señor Cristobal for the poor?”
”That is nothing,” said Juan. ”He was ever free-handed. Do you not re-
member, in our childhood, how he would strike us upon the least provocation,
yet insist on our sharing his sweetmeats and his toys, and even sometimes fight
us for refusing them? While the others knew the value of a ducat before they
knew their Angelus, and would sell and barter their small possessions like Dutch
merchants.”
”Which you spared not to call them, bearing yourself in the quarrels that
naturally ensued with undaunted prowess; while I too often disgraced you by
tearful entreaties for peace at all costs,” returned Carlos, laughing. ”But, my
brother,” he resumed more gravely, ”I often ask myself, are we doing all that is
possible in our present circumstances to share with others the treasure we have
found?”
”I trust it will soon be open to them all,” said Juan, who had now come
just far enough to grasp strongly his right to think and judge for himself, and
with it the idea of emancipation from the control of a proud and domineering
priesthood. ”Great is truth, and shall prevail.”
”Certainly, in the end. But much that to mortal eyes looks like defeat may
civ

come first.”
”I think my learned brother, so much wiser than I upon many subjects, fails
to read well the signs of the times. Whose Word saith, ’When ye see the fig-tree
put forth her buds, know ye that summer is nigh, even at the door’? Everywhere
the fig-trees are budding now.”
”Still the frosts may return.”
”Hold thy peace, too desponding brother. Thou shouldst have learned an-
other lesson yesterday, when thou and I watched the eager thousands as they
hung breathless on the lips of our Fray Constantino. Are not those thousands
really for us, and for truth and freedom?”
”No doubt Christ has his own amongst them.”
”You always think of individuals, Carlos, rather than of our country. You
forget we are sons of Spain, Castilian nobles. Of course we rejoice when even
one man here and there is won for the truth. But our Spain! our glorious land,
first and fairest of all the earth! our land of conquerors, whose arms reach to the
ends of the world–one hand taming the infidel in his African stronghold, while
the other crowns her with the gold and jewels of the far West! She who has led
the nations in the path of discovery–whose fleets gem the ocean–whose armies
rule the land,–shall she not also lead the way to the great city of God, and bring
in the good coming time when all shall know him from the least to the greatest–
when they shall know the truth, and the truth shall make them free? Carlos, my
brother, I do not dare to doubt it.”
It was not often that Don Juan expressed himself in such a lengthened and
energetic, not to say grandiloquent manner. But his love for Spain was a passion,
and to extol her or to plead her cause words were never lacking with him. In
reply to this outburst of enthusiasm, Carlos only said gently, ”Amen, and the
Lord establish it in his time.”
Don Juan looked keenly at him. ”I thought you had faith, Carlos?” he said.
”Faith?” Carlos repeated inquiringly.
”Such faith,” said Juan, ”as I have. Faith in truth and freedom?” And he rang
out the sonorous words, ”Verdad y libertad,” as if he thought, as indeed he did,
that they had but to go forth through a submissive, rejoicing world, ”conquering
and to conquer.”
”I have faith in Christ,” Carlos answered quietly.
And in those two brief phrases each unconsciously revealed to the other
 cv

the very depths of his soul, and told the secret of his history.

XX
The First Drop of a Thunder Shower.

”Closed doorways that are folded

And prayed against in vain”–E. B. Browning

Meanwhile the happy weeks glided on noiselessly and rapidly. They brought

full occupation for head and heart, as well as varied and intense enjoyment. Don
Juan’s constant intercourse with Doña Beatriz was not the less delightful because
already he sought to imbue her mind with the truths which he himself was learn-
ing every day to love better. He thought her an apt and hopeful pupil, but, under
the circumstances, he was scarcely the best possible judge.
Carlos was not so well satisfied with her attainments; he advised reserve
and caution in imparting their secrets to her, lest through inadvertence she might
betray them to her aunt and cousins. Juan considered this a mark of his consti-
tutional timidity; yet he so far attended to his warnings, that Doña Beatriz was
strongly impressed with the necessity of keeping their religious conversations
a profound secret, whilst her sensibilities were not shocked by any mention of
words so odious as heresy or Lutheranism.
Put there could be no doubt as to Juan’s own progress under the instruc-
tions of his brother, and of Losada and Fray Cassiodoro. He began, ere long, to
accompany Carlos to the meetings of the Protestants, who welcomed the new
acquisition to their ranks with affectionate enthusiasm. All were attracted by
Don Juan’s warmth and candour of disposition, and by his free, joyous, hopeful
temperament; though he was not beloved by any as intensely as Carlos was by
the few who really knew him, such as Losada, Don Juan Ponce de Leon, and the
young monk, Fray Fernando.
Partly through the influence of his religious friends, and partly through
the brilliant reputation he had brought from Alcala, Carlos now obtained a lec-
tureship at the College of Doctrine, of which the provost, Fernando de San Juan,
was a decided and zealous Lutheran. This appointment was an honourable one,
cvi

considered in no way derogatory to his social position, and useful as tending to

convince his uncle that he was ”doing something,” not idly dreaming his time
away.
Occupations of another kind opened out before him also. Amongst the
many sincere and anxious inquirers who were troubled with perplexities con-
cerning the relations of the old faith and the new, were some who turned to him,
with an instinctive feeling that he could help them. This was just the work that
best suited his abilities and his temperament. To sympathize, to counsel, to aid
in conflict as only that man can do who has known conflict himself, was God’s
special gift to him. And he who goes through the world speaking, whenever he
can, a word in season to the weary, will seldom be without some weary one ready
to listen to him.
Upon one subject, and only one, the brothers still differed. Juan saw the
future robed in the glowing hues borrowed from his own ardent, hopeful spirit.
In his eyes the Spains were already won ”for truth and freedom,” as he loved to
say. He anticipated nothing less than a glorious regeneration of Christendom, in
which his beloved country would lead the van. And there were many amongst
Losada’s congregation who shared these bright and beautiful, if delusive dreams,
and the enthusiasm which had given them birth, and in its turn was nourished
by them.
Again, there were others who rejoiced with much trembling over the good
tidings that often reached them of the spread of the faith in distant parts of the
country, and who welcomed each neophyte to their ranks as if they were adorn-
ing a victim for the sacrifice. They could not forget that name of terror, the Holy
Inquisition. And from certain ominous indications they thought the sleeping
monster was beginning to stir in his den. Else why had new and severe decrees
against heresy been recently obtained from Rome? And above all, why had the
Bishop of Terragona, Gonzales de Munebrãga, already known as a relentless per-
secutor of Jews and Moors, been appointed Vice-Inquisitor General at Seville?
Still, on the whole, hope and confidence predominated; and strange, nay,
incredible as it may appear to us, beneath the very shadow of the Triana the
Lutherans continued to hold their meetings ”almost with open doors.”
One evening Don Juan escorted Doña Beatriz to some festivity from which
he could not very well excuse himself, whilst Carlos attended a re-union for
prayer and mutual edification at the usual place–the house of Doña Isabella de
Baena.
Don Juan returned at a late hour, but in high spirits. Going at once to
the room where his brother sat awaiting him, he threw off his cloak, and stood
before him, a gay, handsome figure, in his doublet of crimson satin, his gold chain,
and well-used sword, now worn for ornament, with its embossed scabbard and
 cvii

embroidered belt.
”I never saw Doña Beatriz look so charming,” he began eagerly. ”Don
Miguel de Santa Cruz was there, but he could not get no much as a single dance
with her, and looked ready to die for envy. But save me from the impertinence
of Luis Rotelo! I shall have to cane him one of these days, if no milder measures
will teach him his place and station. He, the son of a simple hidalgo, to dare lift
his eyes to Doña Beatriz de Lavella? The caitiff’s presumption!–But thou art not
listening, brother. What is wrong with thee?”
No wonder he asked. The face of Carlos was pale; and the deep mournful
eyes looked as if tears had been lately there. ”A great sorrow, brother mine,” he
answered in a low voice.
”My sorrow too, then. Tell me, what is it?” asked Juan, his tone and manner
changed in a moment.
”Juliano is taken.”
”Juliano! The muleteer who brought the books, and gave you that Testa-
ment?”
”The man who put into my hands this precious Book, to which I owe my
joy now and my hope for eternity,” said Carlos, his lip trembling.
”Ay de mi!–But perhaps it is not true.”
”Too true. A smith, to whom he showed a copy of the Book, betrayed him.
God forgive him–if there be forgiveness for such. It may have been a month ago,
but we only heard it now. And he lies there–there.”
”Who told you?”
”All were talking of it at the meeting when I entered. It is the sorrow of all;
but I doubt if any have such cause to sorrow as I. For he is my father in the faith,
Juan. And now,” he added, after a long, sad pause, ”I shall never tell him what he
has done for me–at least on this side of the grave.”
”There is no hope for him,” said Juan mournfully, as one that mused.
”Hope! Only in the great mercy of God. Even those dreadful dungeon walls
cannot shut Him out.”
”No; thank God.”
”But the prolonged, the bitter, the horrible suffering! I have been trying to
contemplate, to picture it–but I cannot, I dare not. And what I dare not think of,
he must endure.”
”He is a peasant, you are a noble–that makes some difference,” said Don
Juan, with whom the tie of brotherhood in Christ had not yet effaced all earthly
distinctions. ”But Carlos,” he questioned suddenly, and with a look of alarm,
”does not he know everything?”
”Everything,” Carlos answered quietly. ”One word from his lips, and the
pile is kindled for us all. But that word will never be spoken. To-night not one
cviii

heart amongst us trembled for ourselves, we only wept for him.”

”You trust him, then, so completely? It is much to say. They in whose
hands he is are cruel as fiends. No doubt they will–”
”Hush!” interrupted Carlos, with a look of such exceeding pain, that Juan
was effectually silenced. ”There are things we cannot speak of, save to God in
prayer. Oh, my brother, pray for him, that He for whom he has risked so much
may sustain him, and, if it may be, shorten his agony.”
”Surely more than two or three will join in that prayer. But, my brother,”
he added, after a pause, ”be not so downcast. Do you not know that every great
cause must have its martyr? When was a victory won, and no brave man left dead
on the field; a city stormed, and none fallen in the breach? Perhaps to that poor
peasant may be given the glory–the great glory–of being honoured throughout
all time as the sainted martyr whose death has consecrated our holy cause to
victory. A grand lot truly? Worth suffering for!” And Juan’s dark eye kindled,
and his cheek glowed with enthusiasm.
Carlos was silent.
”Dost thou not think so, my brother?”
”I think that Christ is worth suffering; for,” said Carlos at last. ”And that
nothing short of his personal presence, realized by faith, can avail to bring any
man victorious through such fearful trials. May that–may he be with his faithful
servant now, when all human help and comfort are far away.”

XXI.
By the Guadalquivir

”There dwells my father, sinless and at rest,

Where the fierce murderer can no more pursue.”–Schiller

Next Sunday evening the brothers attended the quiet service in Doña Isabella’s

upper room. It was more solemn than usual, because of the deep shadow that
rested on the hearts of all the band assembled there. But Losada’s calm voice
spoke wise and loving words about life and death, and about Him who, being the
Lord of life, has conquered death for all who trust him. Then came prayer–true
 cix

incense offered on the golden altar standing ”before the mercy-seat,” which only
”the veil,” still dropped between, hides from the eyes of the worshippers.[#] But
in such hours many a ray from the glory within shines through that veil.

[#] See Exodus xxx 6.

”Do not let us return home yet, brother,” said Carlos, when they had parted with
their friends. ”The night is fine.”
”Whither shall we bend our steps?”
Carlos named a favourite walk through some olive-yards on the banks of
the river, and Juan set his face towards one of the city gates.
”Why take such a circuit?” said Carlos, showing a disposition to turn in an
opposite direction. ”This is far the shorter way.”
”True; but it is less pleasant.”
Carlos looked at him gratefully. ”My brother would spare my weakness,”
he said. ”But it needs not. Twice of late, when you were engaged with Doña
Beatriz, I went alone thither, and–to the Prado San Sebastian.”
So they passed through the Puerta de Triana, and having crossed the bridge
of boats, leisurely took their way beneath the walls of the grim old castle. As
they did so, both prayed in silence for one who was pining in its dungeons. Don
Juan, whose interest in the fate of Juliano was naturally far less intense than his
brother’s, was the first to break that silence. He remarked that the Dominican
convent adjoining the Triana looked nearly as gloomy as the inquisitorial prison
itself.
”I think it looks like all other convents,” returned Carlos, with indifference.
They were soon in the shadow of the dark, ghost-like olive-trees. The moon
was young, and gave but little light; but the large clear stars looked down through
the southern air like lamps of fire, hanging not so much in the sky as from it.
Were those bright watchers charged with a message from the land very far off,
which seemed so near to them in the high places whence they ruled the night?
Carlos drank in the spirit of the scene in silence. But this did not please his less
meditative brother. ”What art thou pondering?” he asked.
”’They that be wise shall shine as the brightness of the firmament, and they
that turn many to righteousness as the stars for ever and ever.’”
”Art thinking still of the prisoner in the Triana?”
”Of him, and also of another very dear to both of us, of whom I have for
some time been purposing to speak to thee. What if thou and I have been, like
children, seeking for a star on earth while all the time it was shining above us in
cx

God’s glorious heaven?”

”Knowest thou not of old, little brother, that when thy parables begin I am
left behind at once? I pray thee, let the stars alone, and speak the language of
earth.”
”What was the task to which thou and I vowed ourselves in childhood,
brother?”
Juan looked at him keenly through the dim light. ”I sometimes feared thou
hadst forgotten,” he said.
”No danger of that. But I had a reason–I think a good and sufficient one–for
not speaking to thee until well and fully assured of thy sympathy.”
”My sympathy? In aught that concerned the dream, the passion of my
life!–of both our young lives! Carlos, how couldst thou even doubt of this?”
”I had reason to doubt at first whether a gleam of light which has been shed
upon our father’s fate would be regarded by his son as a blessing or a curse.”
”Do not keep a man in suspense, brother. Speak at once, in Heaven’s name.”
”I doubt no longer now. It will be to thee, Juan, as to me, a joy exceeding
great to think that our venerated father read God’s Word for himself, and knew
his truth and honoured it, as we have learned to do.”
”Now, God be thanked!” cried Juan, pausing in his walk and clasping his
hands together. ”This indeed is joyful news. But speak, brother; how do you
know it? Are you certain, or is it only dream, hope, conjecture?”
Carlos told him in detail, first the hint dropped by Losada to De Seso; then
the story of Dolores; lastly, what he had heard at San Isodro about Don Rodrigo
de Valer. And as he proceeded with his narrative, he welded the scattered links
into a connected chain of evidence.
Juan, all eagerness, could hardly wait till he came to the end. ”Why did you
not speak to Losada?” he interrupted at last.
”Stay, brother, and hear me out; the best is to come. I have done so lately.
But until assured how thou wouldst regard the matter, I cared not to ask ques-
tions, the answers to which might wound thy heart.”
”You are in no doubt now. What heard you from Señor Cristobal?”
”I heard that Dr. Egidius named the Conde de Nuera as one of those who
befriended Don Rodrigo. And that he had been present when that brave and
faithful teacher privately expounded the Epistle to the Romans.”
”There!” Juan exclaimed with a start. ”There is the origin of my second
and favourite name, Rodrigo. Brother, brother, these are the best tidings I have
heard for years.” And uncovering his head, he uttered fervent and solemn words
of thanksgiving.
To which Carlos added a heartfelt ”Amen,” and resumed,–
”Then, brother, you think we are justified in taking this joy to our hearts?”
 cxi

”Without doubt,” cried the sanguine Don Juan.

”And it follows that his crime–”
”Was what in our eyes constitutes the truest glory, the profession of a
pure faith,” said Juan with decision, leaping at once to the conclusion Carlos had
reached by a far slower path.
”And those mystic words inscribed upon the window, the delight and won-
der of our childhood–”
”Ah!” repeated Juan–

”El Dorado
Yo hé trovado.”

But what they have to do with the matter I see not yet.”
”You see not? Surely the knowledge of God in Christ, the kingdom of
heaven opened up to us, is the true El Dorado, the golden country, which en-
riches those who find it for ever more.”
”That is all very good,” said Juan, with the air of a man not quite satisfied.
”I doubt not that was our father’s meaning,” Carlos continued.
”I doubt it, though. Up to that point I follow you, Carlos; but there we part.
Something in the New World, I think, my father must have found.”
A lengthened debate followed, in which Carlos discovered, rather to his
surprise, that Juan still clung to his early faith in a literal land of gold. The more
thoughtful and speculative brother sought in vain to reason him out of that be-
lief. Nor was he much more successful when he came to state his own settled
conviction that they should never see their father’s face on earth. Not the slight-
est doubt remained on his own mind that, on account of his attachment to the
Reformed faith, the Conde de Nuera had been, in the phraseology of the time,
quietly ”put out of the way.” But whether this had been done during the voyage,
or on the wild unknown shores of the New World, he believed his children would
never know.
On this point, however, no argument availed with Juan. He seemed deter-
mined not to believe in his father’s death. He confessed, indeed, that his heart
bounded at the thought that he had been a sufferer ”in the cause of truth and
freedom.” ”He has suffered exile,” he said, ”and the loss of all things. But I see not
wherefore he may not after all be living still, somewhere in that vast wonderful
New World.”
”I am content to think,” Carlos replied, ”that all these years he has been at
rest with the dead in Christ. And that we shall see his face first with Christ when
he appears in glory.”
”But I am not content. We must learn something more.”
cxii

”We shall never learn more. How can we?” asked Carlos.
”That is so like thee, little brother. Ever desponding, ever turned easily
from thy purpose.”
”Well; be it so,” said Carlos meekly.
”But what I determine, that I do,” said Juan. ”At least I will make my uncle
speak out,” he continued. ”I have ever suspected that he knows something.”
”But how is that to be done?” asked Carlos. ”Nevertheless, do all thou
canst, and God prosper thee. Only,” he added with great earnestness, ”remember
the necessities of our present position; and for the sake of our friends, as well as
of our own lives, use due prudence and caution.”
”Fear not, my too prudent brother.–The best and dearest brother in the
world,” he added kindly, ”if he had but a little more courage.”
Thus conversing they hastily retraced their steps to the city, the hour being
already late.

Quiet weeks passed on after this unmarked by any event of importance. Winter
had now given place to spring; the time of the singing of birds was come. In
spite of numerous and heavy anxieties, and of one sorrow that pressed more or
less upon all, it was still spring-time in many a brave and hopeful heart amongst
the adherents of the new faith in Seville. Certainly it was spring-time with Don
Juan Alvarez.
One Sunday a letter arrived by special messenger from Nuera, contain-
ing the unwelcome tidings that the old and faithful servant of the house, Diego
Montes, was dying. It was his last wish to resign his stewardship into the hands
of his young master, Señor Don Juan. Juan could not hesitate. ”I will go to-
morrow morning,” he said to Carlos; ”but rest assured I will return hither as soon
as possible; the days are too precious to be lost.”
Together they repaired once more to Doña Isabella’s house. Don Juan told
the friends they met there of his intended departure, and ere they separated many
a hand warmly grasped his, and many a voice spoke kindly the ”Vaya con Dios”
for his journey.
”It needs not formal leave-takings, señores and my brethren,” said Juan; ”my
absence will be very short; not next Sunday indeed, but possibly in a fortnight,
and certainly this day month I shall meet you all here again.”
 cxiii

”God willing,” said Losada gravely. And so they parted.

XXII.
The Flood-Gates Opened.

”And they feared as they entered into the cloud.”

For the first stage of Don Juan’s journey Carlos accompanied him. They spent

the time in animated talk, chiefly about Nuera, Carlos sending kind messages to
the dying man, to Dolores, and indeed to all the household. ”Remember, brother,”
he said, ”to give Dolores the little books I put into the alforjas, specially the ’Con-
fession of a Sinner.’”
”I shall remember everything, even to bringing thee back tidings of all the
sick folk in the village. Now, Carlos, here we agreed to part;–no, not one step
further.”
They clasped each other’s hands. ”It is not like a long parting,” said Juan.
”No. Vaya con Dios, my Ruy.”
”Quede con Dios,[#] brother;” and he rode off, followed by his servant.

[#] Remain with God.

Carlos watched him wistfully; would he turn for a last look? He did turn. Taking
off his velvet montero, he gaily bowed farewell; thus allowing Carlos to gaze
once more upon his dark, handsome, resolute features, keen, sparkling eyes and
curling black hair.
Whilst Juan saw a scholar’s face, thoughtful, refined, sensitive; a broad pale
forehead, from which the breeze had blown the waving fair hair (fair to a southern
eye, though really a bright soft brown), and lips that kept the old sweetness of
expression, though, whether from the manly fringe that graced them or from
some actual change, the weakness which marred them once had ceased to be
apparent now.
cxiv

Another moment, and both had turned their horses’ heads. Carlos, when
he reached the city, made a circuit to avoid one of the very frequent processions
of the Host; since, as time passed on, he felt ever more and more disinclined
to the absolutely necessary prostration. Afterwards he called upon Losada, to
inquire the exact address of a person whom he had asked him to visit. He found
him engaged in his character of physician, and sat down in the patio to await his
leisure.
Ere long Dr. Cristobal passed through, politely accompanying to the gate
a canon of the cathedral, for whose ailments he had just been prescribing. The
Churchman, who was evidently on the best terms with his physician, was show-
ing his good-nature and affability by giving him the current news of the city; to
which Losada listened courteously, with a grave, quiet smile, and, when neces-
sary, an appropriate question or comment. Only one item made any impression
upon Carlos: it related to a pleasant estate by the sea-side which Munebrãga had
just purchased, disappointing thereby a relative of the canon’s who desired to
possess it, but could not command the very large price readily offered by the
Inquisitor.
At last the visitor was gone. In a moment the smile had faded from the
physician’s care-worn face. Turning to Carlos with a strangely altered look, he
said, ”The monks of San Isodro have fled.”
”Fled?” Carlos repeated, in blank dismay.
”Yes; no fewer than twelve of them have abandoned the monastery.”
”How did you hear it?”
”One of the lay brethren came in this morning to inform me. They held
another solemn Chapter, in which it was determined that each one should follow
the guidance of his own conscience, those, therefore, to whom it seemed best to
go have gone, the rest remain.”
For some moments they looked at each other in silence. So fearful was the
peril in which this rash act involved them all, that it almost seemed as if they had
heard a sentence of death.
The voice of Carlos faltered as he asked at last,–”Have Fray Cristobal or
Fray Fernando gone?”
”No; they are both amongst those, more generous if not more wise, who
have chosen to remain and take what God will send them here. Stay, here is a
letter from Fray Cristobal which the lay brother brought me; it will tell you as
much as I know myself.”
Carlos read it carefully. ”It seems,” he said, when he had finished, ”that the
consciences of those who fled would not allow them any longer to conform, even
outwardly, to the rules of their order. Moreover, from the signs of the times, they
believe that a storm is about to burst upon the company of the faithful.”
 cxv

”God grant it may prove that they have saved themselves from its violence,”
Losada answered, with a slight emphasis on ”themselves.”
”And for us?–God help us!” Carlos almost moaned, the paper falling from
his trembling hand. ”What shall we do?”
”Be strong in the Lord, and in the power of his might,” returned Losada
bravely. ”No other strength remains for us. But God grant none of us in the city
may be so unadvised as to follow the example of the brethren. The flight of one
might be the ruin of all.”
”And those noble, devoted men who remain at San Isodro?”
”Are in God’s hands, as we are.”
”I will ride out and visit them, especially Fray Fernando.”
”Excuse me, Señor Don Carlos, but you will do nothing of the kind; that
were to court suspicion. I will bear any message you choose to send.”
”And you?”
Losada smiled, though sadly. ”The physician has occasion to go,” he said;
”he is a very useful personage, who often covers with his ample cloak the dog-
matizing heretic.”
Carlos recognized the official phraseology of the Holy Office. He repressed
a shudder, but could not hide the look of terror that dilated his large blue eyes.
The older man, the more experienced Christian, could compassionate the
youth. Losada, himself standing ”face to face with death,” spoke kind words of
counsel and comfort to Carlos. He cautioned him strongly against losing his self-
possession, and thereby running needlessly into danger. ”Especially would I urge
upon you, Señor Don Carlos,” he said, ”the duty of avoiding unnecessary risk, for
already you are useful to us; and should God spare your life, you will be still more
so. If I fall–”
”Do not speak of it, my beloved friend.”
”It will be as God pleases,” said the pastor calmly. ”But I need not remind
you, others stand in like peril with me. Especially Fray Cassiodoro, and Don Juan
Ponce de Leon.”
”The noblest heads, the likeliest to fall,” Carlos murmured.
”Then must younger soldiers step forth from the ranks, and take up the
standards dropped from their hands. Don Carlos Alvarez, we have high hopes
of you. Your quiet words reach the heart; for you speak that which you know,
and testify that which you have seen. And the good gifts of mind that God has
given you enable you to speak with the greater acceptance. He may have much
work for you in his harvest-field. But whether he should call you to work or to
suffer, shrink not, but ’be strong and of good courage; be not afraid, neither be
thou dismayed; for the Lord thy God is with thee whithersoever thou goest.’”
”I will try to trust him; and may he make his strength perfect in my weak-
cxvi

ness,” said Carlos. ”But for the present,” he added, ”give me any lowly work to
do, whereby I may aid you or lighten your cares, my loved friend and teacher.”
Losada gladly gave him, as indeed he had done several times before, in-
structions to visit certain secret inquirers, and persons in distress and perplexity
of mind.
He passed the next two or three days in these ministrations, and in con-
stant prayer, especially for the remaining monks of San Isodro, whose sore peril
pressed heavily on his heart. He sought, as much as possible, to shut out other
thoughts; or, when they would force an entrance, to cast their burden, which
otherwise would have been intolerable, upon Him who would surely care for his
own Church, his few sheep in the wilderness.
One morning he remained late in his chamber, writing a letter to his
brother; and then went forth, intending to visit Losada. As it was a fast-day,
and he kept the Church fasts rigorously, it happened that he had not previously
met any of his uncle’s family.
The entrance to the physician’s house did not present its usual cheerful
appearance. The gate was shut and bolted, and there was no sign of patients
passing in or out Carlos became alarmed. It was long before he obtained an
answer to his repeated calls. At last, however, some one inside cried, ”Quien
es?”[#]

[#] Who is there?

Carlos gave his name, well known to all the household.

Then the door was half opened, and a mulatto serving-lad showed a terri-
fied face behind it.
”Where is Señor Cristobal?”
”Gone, señor.”
”Gone!–whither?”
The answer was a furtive, frightened whisper. ”Last night–the Alguazils of
the Holy Office.” And the door was shut and bolted in his face.
He stood rooted to the spot, speechless and motionless, in a trance of hor-
ror. At last he was startled by feeling some one grasp his arm without ceremony,
indeed rather roughly.
”Are you moonstruck, Cousin Don Carlos?” asked the voice of Gonsalvo.
”At least you might have had the courtesy to offer me the aid of your arm, without
putting me to the shame of requesting it, miserable cripple that I am!” and he gave
vent to a torrent of curses upon his own infirmities, using expressions profane
 cxvii

and blasphemous enough to make Carlos shiver with pain.

Yet that very pain did him real service. It roused him from his stupor, as
sharp anguish sometimes brings back a patient from a swoon. He said, ”Pardon
me, my cousin, I did not see you; but I hear you now–with sorrow.”
Gonsalvo deigned no answer, except his usual short, bitter laugh.
”Whither do you wish to go?”
”Home. I am tired.”
They walked along in silence; at last Gonsalvo asked, abruptly,–
”Have you heard the news?”
”What news?”
”The news that is in every one’s mouth to-day. Indeed, the city has well
nigh run mad with holy horror. And no wonder! Their reverences, the Lords
Inquisitors, have just discovered a community of abominable Lutherans, a very
viper’s nest, in our midst. It is said the wretches have actually dared to carry on
their worship somewhere in the town. Ah, no marvel you look horror-stricken,
my pious cousin. You could never have dreamed that such a thing was possible,
could you?” After one quick, keen glance, he did not look again in his cousin’s
face; but he might have felt the beating of his cousin’s heart against his arm.
”I am told,” he continued, ”that nearly two hundred persons have been ar-
rested already.”
”Two hundred!” gasped Carlos.
”And the arrests are going on still.”
”Who is taken?” Carlos forced his trembling lips to ask.
”Losada; more’s the pity. A good physician, though a bad Christian.”
”A good physician, and a good Christian too,” said Carlos in the voice of
one who tries to speak calmly in terrible bodily pain.
”An opinion you would do more wisely to keep to yourself, if a reprobate
such as I may presume to counsel so learned and pious a personage.”
”Who else?”
”One you would never guess. Don Juan Ponce de Leon, of all men. Think
of the Count of Baylen’s son being thus degraded! Also the master of the College
of Doctrine, San Juan; and a number of Jeromite friars from San Isodro. Those
are all I know worth a gentleman’s taking account of. There are some beggarly
tradesfolk, such as Medel d’Espinosa, the embroiderer; and Luis d’Abrego, from
whom your brother bought that beautiful book of the Gospels he gave Doña
Beatriz. But if only such cattle were concerned in it, no one would care.”
”Some fools there be,” Don Gonsalvo continued after a pause, ”who have
run to the Triana, and informed against themselves, thinking thereby to get off
more easily. Fools, again I say, for their pains.” And he emphasized his words by
a pressure of the arm on which he was leaning.
cxviii

At length they reached the door of Don Manuel’s house. ”Thanks for your
aid,” said Gonsalvo. ”Now that I remember it, Don Carlos, I hear also that we are
to have a grand procession on Tuesday with banners and crosses, in honour of
Our Lady, and of our holy patronesses Justina and Rufina, to beg pardon for the
sin and scandal so long permitted in the midst of our most Catholic city. You, my
pious cousin, licentiate of theology and all but consecrated priest–you will carry
a taper, no doubt?”
Carlos would fain have left the question unanswered; but Gonsalvo meant
to have an answer. ”You will?” he repeated, laying his hand on his arm, and
looking him in the face, though with a smile. ”It would be very creditable to the
family for one of us to appear. Seriously; I advise you to do it.”
Then Carlos said quietly, ”No;” and crossed the patio to the staircase which
led to his own apartment.
Gonsalvo stood watching him, and mentally retracting, at his last word, the
verdict formerly pronounced against him as ”a coward,” ”not half a man.”

XXIII.
The Reign of Terror

”Though shining millions around thee stand,

For the sake of him at thy right hand
Think of the souls he died for here,
Thus wandering in darkness, in doubt and fear.

”The powers of darkness are all abroad–

They own no Saviour, and they fear no God;
And we are trembling in dumb dismay;
Oh, turn not thou thy face away.”–Hogg

It was late in the evening when Carlos emerged from his chamber. How

the intervening hours had been passed he never told any one. But this much is
certain,–he contended with and overcame a wild, almost uncontrollable impulse
to seek refuge in flight. His reason told him that this would be to rush upon
 cxix

certain destruction: so sedulously guarded were all the ways of egress, and so
watchful and complete, in every city and village of the land, was the inquisitorial
organization; not to speak of the ”Hermandad,” or Brotherhood–a kind of civil
police, always ready to co-operate with the ecclesiastical authorities.
Still, if he could not be saved, Juan might and should. This thought was
growing gradually clearer and stronger in his bewildered brain and aching heart
while he knelt in his chamber, finding a relief in the attitude of prayer, though
few and broken were the words of prayer that passed his trembling lips. Indeed,
the burden of his cry was this: ”Lord, have mercy on us. Christ, have mercy on
us. Thou that carest for us, forsake us not in our bitter need. For thine is the
kingdom; even yet thou reignest.”
This was all he could find to plead, either on his own behalf or on that of
his imprisoned brethren; though for them his heart was wrung with unutterable
anguish. Once and again did he repeat–”Thine is the kingdom and the power.
Thine, O Father; thine, O Lord and Saviour. Thou canst deliver us.”
It was well for him that he had Juan to save. He rose at last; and added to the
letter previously written to his brother a few lines of most earnest entreaty that
he would on no account return to Seville. But then, recollecting his own position,
he marvelled greatly at his simplicity in purposing to send such a letter by the
King’s post–an institution which, strange to say, Spain possessed at an earlier
period than any other country in Europe. If he should fall under suspicion, his
letter would be liable to detention and examination, and might thus be the means
of involving Juan in the very peril from which he sought to deliver him.
A better plan soon occurred to him. That he might carry it out, he de-
scended late in the evening to the cool, marble-paved court, or patio, in the cen-
tre of which the fountain ever murmured and glistened, surrounded by tropical
plants, some of them in gorgeous bloom.
As he had hoped, one solitary lamp burned like a star in a remote corner;
and its light illumined the form of a young girl seated on a low chair, before
an inlaid ebony table, writing busily. Doña Beatriz had excused herself from
accompanying the family on an evening visit, that she might devote herself in
undisturbed solitude to the composition of her first love-letter–indeed, her first
letter of any kind: for short as he intended his absence to be, Juan had stipulated
for this consolation, and induced her to premise it; and she knew that the King’s
post went northwards the next day, passing by Nuera on his way to the towns of
La Mancha.
So engrossing was her occupation that she did not hear the step of Carlos.
He drew near, and stood behind her. Pearls, golden Agni, and a scarlet flower
or two, were twined with her glossy raven hair; and the lamp shed a subdued
radiance over her fine features, which glowed through their delicate olive with
cxx

the rosy light of joy. An exquisite though not very costly perfume, that Carlos in
other days always associated with her presence, still continued a favourite with
her, and filled the place around with fragrance. It brought back his memory to
the past–to that wild, vain, yet enchanting dream; the brief romance of his life.
But there was no time now even for ”a dream within a dream.” There was only
time to thank God, from the depths of his soul, that in all the wide world there
was no heart that would break for him.
”Doña Beatriz,” he said gently.
She started, and half turned, a bright flush mounting to her cheek.
”You are writing to my brother.”
”And how know you that, Señor Don Carlos?” asked the young lady, with
a little innocent affectation.
But Carlos, standing face to face with terrible realities, pushed aside her
pretty arts, as one hastening to succour a dying man might push aside a branch
of wild roses that impeded his path.
”I most earnestly request of you, señora, to convey to him a message from
me.”
”And wherefore can you not write to him yourself, Señor Licentiate?”
”Is it possible, señora, that you know not what has happened?”
”Vaya, vaya, Don Carlos! how you startle one.–Do you mean these horrible
arrests?”
Carlos found that a few strong, plain words were absolutely necessary in
order to make Beatrix understand his brother’s peril. She had listened hitherto to
Don Juan’s extracts from Scripture, and the arguments and exhortations founded
thereon, conscious, indeed, that these were secrets which should be jealously
guarded, yet unconscious that they were what the Church and the world branded
as heresy. Consequently, although she heard of the arrest of Losada and his
friends with vague regret and apprehension, she was far from distinctly associ-
ating the crime for which they suffered with the name dearest to her heart. She
was still very young; and she had not thought much–she had only loved. And
she blindly followed him she loved, without caring to ask whither he was going
himself, or whither he was leading her. When at last Carlos made her compre-
hend that it was for reading the Scriptures, and talking of justification by faith
alone, that Losada was thrown into the dungeons of the Triana, a thrilling cry of
anguish broke from her lips.
”Hush, señora!” said Carlos; and for once his voice was stern. ”If even your
little black foot-page heard that cry, it might ruin all.”
But Beatrix was unused to self-control. Another cry followed, and there
were symptoms of hysterical tears and laughter. Carlos tried a more potent spell.
”Hush, señora!” he repeated. ”We must be strong and silent, if we are to
 cxxi

save Don Juan.”

She looked piteously up at him, repeating, ”Save Don Juan?”
”Yes, señora. Listen to me. You, at least, are a good Catholic. You have not
compromised yourself in any way: you say your angelus; you make your vows;
you bring flowers to Our Lady’s shrine. You are safe.”
She turned round and faced him–her cheek dyed crimson, and her eyes
flashing,–
”I am safe! Is that all you have to say? Who cares for that? What is my life
worth?”
”Patience, dear señora! Your safety aids in securing his. Listen.–You are
writing to him. Tell him of the arrests; for hear of them he must. Use the language
about heresy which will occur to you, but which–God help me!–I could not use.
Then pass from the subject. Write aught else that comes to your mind; but before
closing your letter, say that I am well in mind and body, and would be heartily
recommended to him. Add that I most earnestly request of him, for our common
good and the better arrangement of our affairs, not to return to Seville, but to
remain at Nuera. He will understand that. Lay your own commands upon him–
your commands, remember, señora–to the same effect.”
”I will do all that.–But here come my aunt and cousins.”
It was true. Already the porter had opened for them the gloomy outer
gate; and now the gilt and filagreed inner door was thrown open also, and the
returning family party filled the court. They were talking together; not quite so
gaily as usual, but still eagerly enough. Doña Sancha soon drew near to Beatrix,
and began to rally her upon her occupation, threatening playfully to carry away
and read the unfinished letter. No one addressed a word to Carlos; but that might
have been mere accident.
It was, however, scarcely accidental that his aunt, as she passed him on
her way to an inner room, drew her mantilla closer round her, lest its deep lace
fringe might touch his clothing. Shortly afterwards Doña Sancha dropped her
fan. According to custom, Carlos stooped for it, and handed it to her with a bow.
The young lady took it mechanically, but almost immediately dropped it again
with a look of scorn, as if polluted by its touch. Its delicate carved ivory, the work
of Moorish hands, lay in fragments on the marble floor; and from that moment
Carlos knew that he was under the ban, that he stood alone amidst his uncle’s
household–a suspected and degraded man.
It was not wonderful. His intimacy with the monks of San Isodro, his
friendship with Don Juan Ponce de Leon, and with the physician Losada, were all
well-known facts. Moreover, had he not taught at the College of Doctrine, under
the direct patronage of Fernando de San Juan, another of the victims. And there
were other indications of his tendencies which could scarcely escape notice, once
cxxii

the suspicions of those who lived under the same roof with him were awakened.
For a time he stood silent, watching his uncle’s countenance, and mark-
ing the frown that contracted his brow whenever his eye turned towards him.
But when Don Manuel passed into a smaller saloon that opened upon the court,
Carlos followed him boldly.
They stood face to face, but could hardly see each other. The room was
darkness, save for a few struggling moonbeams.
”Señor my uncle,” said Carlos, ”I fear my presence here is displeasing to
you.”
Don Manuel paused before replying.
”Nephew,” he said at length, ”you have been lamentably imprudent. The
saints grant you have been no worse.”
A moment of strong emotion will sometimes bring out in a man’s face char-
acteristic lineaments of his family, in calmer seasons not traceable there. Thus
it is with features of the soul. It was not the gentle timid Don Carlos who spoke
now, it was Alvarez de Santillanos y Meñaya. There was both pride and courage
in his tone.
”If it has been my misfortune to offend my honoured uncle, to whom I owe
so many benefits, I am sorry, though I cannot charge myself with any fault. But
I should be faulty indeed were I to prolong my stay in a house where I am no
longer what, thanks to your kindness, señor my uncle, I have ever been hitherto,
a welcome guest.” Having spoken thus, he turned to go.
”Stay, young fool!” cried Don Manuel, who thought the better of him for
his proud words. They raised him, in his estimation, from a mark for his scorn
to a legitimate object for his indignation. ”There spoke your father’s voice. But
I tell you, for all that, you shall not quit the shelter of my roof.”
”I thank you.”
”You may spare the pains. I ask you not, for I prefer to remain in ignorance,
to what perilous and fool-hardy lengths your intimacy with heretics may have
gone. Without being a Qualificator of heresy myself, I can tell that you smell
of the fire. And indeed, young man, were you anything less than Alvarez de
Meñaya, I would hardly scorch my own fingers to hold you out of it. The Devil–
to whom, in spite of all your fair appearances, I fear you belong–might take care
of his own. But since truth is the daughter of God, you shall have it from my
lips. And the plain truth is, that I have no desire to hear every cur dog in Seville
barking at me and mine; nor to see our ancient and honourable name dragged
through the mire and filth of the streets.”
”I have never disgraced that name.”
”Have I not said that I desire no protestations from you? Whatever my
private opinion may be, it stands upon our family honour to hold that yours is
 cxxiii

still unstained. Therefore, not from love, as I tell you plainly, but from motives
that may perchance prove stronger in the end, I and mine extend to you our
protection. I am a good Catholic, a faithful son of Mother Church; but I freely
confess I am no hero of the Faith, to offer up upon its shrine those that bear my
own name. I pretend not to such heights of sanctity, not I.” And Don Manuel
shrugged his shoulders.
”I entreat of you, señor my uncle, to allow me to explain–”
Don Manuel waved his hand with a forbidding gesture. ”None of thy ex-
planations for me,” he said. ”I am no silly cock, to scratch till I find the knife.
Dangerous secrets had best be let alone. This I will say, however, that of all the
contemptible follies of these evil times, this last one of heresy is the worst. If a
man will lose his soul, in the name of common sense let him lose it for fine houses,
broad lands, a duke’s title, an archbishop’s coffers, or something else good at least
in this world. But to give all up, and to gain nothing, save fire here and fire again
hereafter! It is sheer, blank idiocy.”
”I have gained something,” said Carlos firmly. ”I have gained a treasure
worth more than all I risk, more than life itself.”
”What! Is there really a meaning in this madness? Have you and your
friends a secret?” Don Manuel asked in a gentler voice, and not without curiosity.
For he was the child of his age; and had Carlos told him that the heretics had made
the discovery of the philosopher’s stone, he would have seen nothing worthy of
disbelief in the statement; he would only have asked him for proofs.
”The knowledge of God in Christ,” began Carlos eagerly, ”gives me joy and
peace–”
”Is that all?” cried Don Manuel with an oath. ”Fool that I was, to imagine,
for half an idle minute, that there might be some grain of common sense still left
in your crazy brain! But since it is only a question of words and names, and mys-
tical doctrines, I have the honour to wish you good evening, Señor Don Carlos.
Only I command you, as you value your life, and prefer a residence beneath my
roof to a dungeon in the Triana, to keep your insanity within bounds, and to con-
duct yourself so as to avert suspicion. On these conditions we will shelter you.
Eventually, if it can be done with safety, we may even ship you out of the Spains
to some foreign country, where heretics, rogues, and thieves are permitted to go
at large.” So saying, he left the room.
Carlos was stung to the quick by his contempt; but remembered at last that
it was a fragment of the true cross (really the first that had fallen to his lot) given
him to wear in honour of his Master.
Sleep would not visit his eyes that night. The next day was the Sabbath,
a day he had been wont to welcome and enjoy. But never again should the Re-
formed Church of Seville meet in the upper room which had been the scene of
cxxiv

so much happy intercourse. The next reunion was appointed for another place,
a house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens. Doña Isabella de Baena
and Losada were in the dungeons of the Triana. Fray Cassiodoro de Reyna, sin-
gularly fortunate, had succeeded in making his escape. Fray Constantino, on
the other hand, had been amongst the first arrested; but Carlos went as usual to
the Cathedral, where that eloquent voice would never again be heard. A heavy
silent gloom, like that which precedes a thunderstorm, seemed to fill the crowded
aisles.
Yet it was there that the first gleam of comfort reached the breaking heart
of Carlos. It came to him through the familiar words of the Latin service, loved
from childhood.
He said afterwards to the trembling children of one of the victims, whose
desolated home he dared to visit, ”For myself, horror took hold of me. I dared not
to think. I scarce dared to pray, save in broken words that were only like cries of
pain. The first thing that helped me was that grand verse in the Te Deum, chanted
by the sweet childish voices of the Cathedral choir–’Tu, devicto mortis aculeo,
aperuesti credentibus regna coelorum.’ Think, dear friends, not death alone, but
its sting, its sharpness,–for us and our beloved,–He has overcome, and they and
we in him. The gates of the kingdom of heaven stand open; opened by his hands,
and neither men nor fiends can shut them again.”
Such words as these did Carlos find opportunity to speak to many bereaved
ones, from whom the desire of their eyes had been taken by a stroke far more
bitter than death. This ministry of love did not greatly increase his own peril,
since the less he deviated from his ordinary habits of life the less suspicion he
was likely to awaken. But had it been otherwise, he was not now in a position to
calculate. Perhaps he was too near heaven; at all events, he had already ventured
too much for Christ’s sake not to be willing, at his call, to venture a little more.
Meanwhile, the isolation of his position in his uncle’s house grew overpow-
ering. No one reproached him, no one taunted him, not even Gonsalvo. He often
longed for some bitter word, ay, though it were a curse, to break the oppressive
silence. Every eye looked upon him with hatred and scorn; every hand shrank
from the slightest, most accidental contact with his. Almost he came to consider
himself what all others considered him,–polluted, degraded–under the ban.
Once and again would he have sought escape by flight from an atmosphere
in which it seemed more and more impossible to breathe. But flight meant arrest;
and arrest, besides its overwhelming terrors for himself, meant the danger of
betraying Juan. His uncle and his uncle’s family, though they seemed now to
scorn and hate him, had promised to save him if they could, and so far he trusted
 cxxv

them.

XXIV.
A Gleam of Light

”It is a weary task to school the heart,

Ere years or griefs have tamed its fiery throbbings,
Into that still and passive fortitude
Which is but learned from suffering.”–Hemans

Shortly afterwards, the son and heir of Doña Inez was baptized, with the usual

amount of ceremony and rejoicing. After the event, the family and friends par-
took of a merienda of fruit, confectionery, and wine, in the patio of Don Garçia’s
house. Much against his inclination, Carlos was obliged to be present, as his
absence would have occasioned remark and inquiry.
When the guests were beginning to disperse, the hostess drew near the
spot where he stood, near to the fountain, admiring, or seeming to admire, a
pure white azalia in glorious bloom.
”In good sooth, cousin Don Carlos,” she said, ”you forget old friends very
easily. But I suppose it is because you are going so soon to take Orders. Every
one knows how learned and pious you are. And no doubt you are right to wean
yourself in good time from the concerns and amusements of this unprofitable
world.”
No word of this little speech was lost upon one of the neatest gossips in
Seville, a lady of rank, who stood near, leaning on the arm of Losada’s former
patient, the wealthy Canon. And this was what the speaker, in her good nature,
probably intended.
Carlos raised to her face eyes beaming with gratitude for the friendly no-
tice.
”No change of state, señora, can ever make me forget the kindness of my
fair cousin,” he responded with a bow.
”Your cousin’s little daughter,” said the lady, ”had once a place in your af-
fections. But with you, as with all the rest, I presume the boy is everything. As
for my poor little Inez, her small person is of small account in the world now. It
cxxvi

is well she has her mother.”

”Nothing would give me greater pleasure than to renew my acquaintance
with Doña Inez, if I may be permitted so to do.”
This was evidently what the mother desired. ”Go to the right then, amigo
mio,” she said promptly, indicating the place intended by a quick movement of
her fan, ”and I will send the child to you.”
Carlos obeyed, and for a considerable time paced up and down a cool
spacious apartment, only separated from the court by marble pillars, between
which costly hangings were suspended. Being a Spaniard, and dwelling among
Spaniards, he was neither surprised nor disconcerted by the long delay.
At last, however, he began to suspect that his cousin had forgotten him.
But this was not the case. First a painted ivory ball rolled in over the smooth
floor; then one of the hangings was hastily pushed aside, and the little Doña Inez
bounded gaily into the room in search of her toy. She was a merry, healthy child,
about two years old, and really very pretty, though her infantine charms were
not set off to advantage by the miniature nun’s habit in which she was dressed,
on account of a vow made by her mother to ”Our Lady of Carmel,” during the
serious illness for which Carlos had summoned Losada to her aid.
She was followed almost immediately, not by the grave elderly nurse who
usually waited on her, but by a girl of about sixteen, rather a beauty, whose
quick dark eyes bestowed, from beneath their long lashes, bashful but evidently
admiring glances on the handsome young nobleman.
Carlos, ever fond of children, and enjoying the momentary relief from the
painful tension of his daily life, stooped for the ball and held it, just allowing its
bright red to appear through his fingers. As the child was not in the least shy, he
was soon engaged in a game with her.
Looking up in the midst of it, he saw that the mother had come in silently,
and was watching him with searching anxious eyes that brought back in a mo-
ment all his troubles. He allowed the ball to slide to the ground, and then, with
a touch of his foot, sent it rolling into one of the farthest corners of the spa-
cious hall. The child ran gleefully after it; while the mother and the attendant
exchanged glances. ”You may take the noble child away, Juanita,” said the former.
Juanita led off her charge without again allowing her to approach Carlos,
thus rendering unnecessary the ceremony of a farewell. Was this the mother’s
contrivance, lest by spell of word or gesture, or even by a kiss, the heretic might
pollute or endanger the innocent babe?
When they were alone together, Doña Inez was the first to speak. ”I do not
think you can be so wicked after all; since you love children, and play with them
still,” she said in a low, half-frightened tone.
”God bless you for those words, señora,” answered Carlos with a trembling
 cxxvii

lip. He was learning to steel himself to scorn; but kindness tested his self-control
more severely.
”Amigo mio,” she resumed, drawing nearer and speaking more rapidly, ”I
cannot quite forget the past. It is very wrong, I know, and I am weak. Ay de mi!
If it be true you really are that dreadful thing I do not care to name, I ought to
have the courage to stand by and see you perish.”
”But my kinsfolk,” said Carlos, ”do not intend me to perish. And for the
protection they afford me I am grateful. More I could not have expected from
them; less they might well have done for me. But I would to God I could show
them and you that I am not the foul dishonoured thing they deem me.”
”If it had only been something respectable,” said Doña Inez, with a sort of
writhe, ”such as some youthful irregularity, or stabbing or slaying somebody!–
but what use in words? I would say, I counsel you to look to your own safety.
Do you not know my brothers?”
”I think I do, señora. That an Alvarez de Meñaya should be defamed of
heresy would be more than a disgrace–it would be a serious injury to them.”
”There be more ways than one of avoiding the misfortune.”
Carlos looked inquiringly at her. Something in her half-averted face and
the quick shrug of her shoulders prompted him to ask, ”Do you think they mean
me mischief?”
”Daggers are sharp to cut knots,” said the lady, playing with her fan and
avoiding his eye.
With so many ghastlier terrors had the mind of Carlos grown familiar, that
this one came to him in the guise of a relief. So ”the sharpness of death” for him
might mean no more than a dagger’s thrust, after all! One moment here, the next
in his Saviour’s presence. Who that knew aught of the tender mercies of the Holy
Office could do less than thank God on his bended knees for the prospect of such
a fate!
”It is not death that I fear,” he answered, looking at her steadily.
”But you may as well live; nay, you had better live. For you may repent,
may save your unhappy soul. I shall pray for you.”
”I thank you, dear and kind señora; but, through the grace of God, my soul
is saved already. I believe in Jesus Christ–”
”Hush! for Heaven’s sake!” Doña Inez interrupted, dropping her fan and
putting her fingers in her ears. ”Hush! or ere I am aware I shall have listened
to some dreadful heresy. The saints help me! How should I know just where
the good Catholic words end, and the wicked ones begin? I might be caught in
the web of the evil one; and then neither saint nor angel, no, nor even Our Lady
herself, could deliver me. But listen to me, Don Carlos, for at all events I would
save your life.”
cxxviii

”I will listen gratefully to aught from your lips.”

”I know that you dare not attempt flight from the city at present. But if
you could lie concealed in some safe and quiet place within it till this storm has
blown over, you might then steal away unobserved. Don Garçia says that now
there is such a keen search made after the Lutherans, that every man who cannot
give a good account of himself is like to be taken for one of the accursed sect. But
that cannot last for ever; in six months or so the panic will be past. And those six
months you may spend in safety, hidden away in the lodging of my lavandera.”[#]

[#] Washerwoman.

”You are kind–”

”Peace, and listen. I have arranged the whole matter. And once you are
there, I will see that you lack nothing. It is in the Morrero;[#] a house hidden in a
very labyrinth of lanes, a chamber in the house which a man would need to look
for very particularly ere he found it.”

[#] Moorish quarter of the city.

”How shall I succeed in finding it?”

”You noticed the pretty girl who led in my little Inez? Pepe, the lavandera’s
son, is ready to die for the love of her. She will describe you to him, and engage
his assistance in the adventure, telling him the story I have told her, that you
wish to conceal yourself for a season, having stabbed your rival in a love affair.”
”O Doña Inez! I?–almost a priest!”
”Well, well; do not look so horror-stricken, amigo mia. What could I do? I
dared not give them a hint of the truth, or both my hands full of double ducats
would not have tempted them to stir in the affair. So I thought no shame of in-
venting a crime for you that would win their interest and sympathy, and dispose
them to aid you.”
”Passing strange,” said Carlos. ”Had I only sinned against the law of God
and the life of my neighbour, they would gladly help me to escape; did they dream
that I read his words in my own tongue, they would give me up to death.”
”Juanita is a good little Christian,” remarked Doña Inez; ”and Pepe also is
a very honest lad. But perhaps you may find some sympathy with the old crone
of a lavandera, who is of Moorish blood, and, it is whispered, knows more of
 cxxix

Mohammed than she does of her Breviary.”

Carlos disclaimed all connection with the followers of the false prophet.
”How should I know the difference?” said Doña Inez. ”I thought it was all
the same, heresy and heresy. But I was about to say, Pepe is a gallant lad, a regular
majo; his hand knows its way either amongst the strings of a guitar, or on the hilt
of a dagger. He has often served caballeros who were out of nights serenading
their ladies; and he will go equipped as if for such an adventure. You, also, bind
a guitar on your shoulder (you could use one in old times, and to good purpose
too, if you have not forgotten all Christian accomplishments together); bribe old
Sancho to leave the gates open, and sally forth to-morrow night when the clock
strikes the midnight hour. Pepe will wait for you in the Calle del Candilejo until
one.”
”To-morrow night?”
”I would have named to-night, but Pepe has a dance to attend. Moreover,
I knew not whether I could arrange this interview in sufficient time to prepare
you. Now, cousin,” she added anxiously, ”you understand your part, and you will
not fail in it.”
”I understand everything, señora my cousin. From my heart I thank you
for the noble effort to save me. Whether in its result it shall prove successful
or no, already it is successful in giving me hope and strength, and renewing my
faith in old familiar kindness.”
”Hush! that step is Don Garçia’s. It is best you should go.”
”Only one word more, señora. Will my generous cousin add to her good-
ness by giving my brother, when it can be done with safety, a hint of how it has
fared with me?”
”Yes; that shall be cared for. Now, adios.”
”I kiss your feet, señora,”
She hastily extended her hand, upon which he pressed a kiss of friendship
and gratitude. ”God bless you, my cousin,” he said.
”Vaya con Dios,” she responded. ”For it is our last meeting,” she added
mentally.
She stood and watched the retreating figure with tears in her bright eyes,
and in her heart a memory that went back to old times, when she used to intercede
with her rough brothers for the delicate shrinking child, who was younger, as
well as frailer, than all the rest. ”He was ever gentle and good, and fit to be a holy
priest,” she thought. ”Ay de mi, for the strange, sad change! Yet, after all, I cannot
see that he is so greatly changed. Playing with the child, talking with me, he is
just the same Carlos as of old. But the devil is very cunning. God and Our Lady
cxxx

keep us from his wiles!”

XXV.
Waiting.

”Our night is dreary, and dim our day,

And if thou turn thy face away,
We are sinful, feeble, and helpless dust,
And have none to look to and none to trust.”–Hogg

Thus was Carlos roused from the dull apathy of forced inaction. With the

courage and energy that are born of hope, he made the few and simple prepara-
tions for his flight that were in his power. He also visited as many as he could of
his afflicted friends, feeling that his ministry among them was now drawing to a
close.
He rejoined his uncle’s family as usual at the evening meal. Don Balthazar,
the empleado, was not present at its commencement, but soon came in, looking
so much disturbed that his father asked, ”What is amiss?”
”There is nothing amiss, señor and my father,” answered the young man,
as he raised a large cup of Manzanilla to his lips.
”Is there any news in the city?” asked his brother Don Manuel.
Don Balthazar set down the empty cup. ”No great news,” he answered. ”A
curse upon those Lutheran dogs that are setting the place in an uproar.”
”What! more arrests,” said Don Manuel the elder. ”It is awful. The number
reached eight hundred yesterday. Who is taken now?”
”A priest from the country, Doctor Juan Gonzalez, and a friar named
Olmedo. But that is nothing. They might take all the Churchmen in all the
Spains, and fling them into the lowest dungeons of the Triana for me. It is a
different matter when we come to speak of ladies–ladies, too, of the first families
and highest consideration.”
A slight shudder, and a kind of forward movement, as if to catch what was
coming, passed round the table. But Don Balthazar seemed reluctant to say more.
”Is it any of our acquaintances?” asked the sharp, high-pitched voice of
 cxxxi

Doña Sancha at last.

”Every one is acquainted with Don Pedro Garçia de Xeres y Bohorques. It
is–I tremble to tell you–his daughter.”
”Which?” cried Gonsalvo, in tones that turned the gaze of all on his livid
face and fierce eager eyes.
”St. Iago, brother! You need not look thus at me. Is it my fault?–It is the
learned one, of course, Doña Maria. Poor lady, she may well wish now that she
had never meddled with anything beyond her Breviary.”
”Our Lady and all the saints defend us! Doña Maria in prison for heresy–
horrible! Who will be safe now?” the ladies exclaimed, crossing themselves shud-
deringly.
But the men used stronger language. Fierce and bitter were the anathemas
they heaped upon heresy and heretics. Yet it is only just to say that, had they
dared, they might have spoken differently. Probably in their secret hearts they
meant the curses less for the victims than for their oppressors; and had Spain been
a land in which men might speak what they thought, Gonzales de Munebrãga
would have been devoted to a lower place in hell than Luther or Calvin.
Only two were silent. Before the eye of Carlos rose the sweet thoughtful
face of the young girl, as he had seen it last, radiant with the faith and hope
kindled by the sublime words of heavenly promise spoken by Losada. But the
sight of another face–still, rigid, death-like–drove that vision away. Gonsalvo
sat opposite to him at the table. And had he never heard the strange story Doña
Inez told him, that look would have revealed it all.
Neither curse nor prayer passed the white lips of Gonsalvo. Not one of all
the bitter words, found so readily on slighter occasions, came now to his aid. The
fiercest outburst of passion would have seemed less terrible to Carlos than this
unnatural silence.
Yet none of the others, after the first moment, appeared to notice it. Or if
they did observe anything strange in the look and manner of Gonsalvo, it was
imputed to physical pain, from which he often suffered, but for which he re-
jected, and even resented, sympathy, until at last it ceased to be offered him.
Having given what expression they dared to their outraged feelings, they once
more turned their attention to the unfinished repast. It was not at all a cheerful
meal, yet it was duly partaken of, except by Gonsalvo and Carlos, both of whom
left the table as soon as they could without attracting attention.
Willingly would Carlos have endeavoured to console his cousin; but he did
not dare to speak to him, or even to allow him to guess that he saw the anguish
of his soul.
One day still remained to him before his flight. In the morning, though
not very early, he set out to finish his farewell visits to his friends. He had not
cxxxii

gone many paces from the house, when he observed a gentleman in plain black
clothing, with sword and cloak, look at him regardfully as he passed. A moment
afterwards the same person, having apparently changed his mind as to the di-
rection in which he wished to go, hurried by him at a rapid pace; and with a
murmured ”Pardon, señor,” thrust a billet into his hand.
Not doubting that one of his friends had sent an emissary to warn him of
some danger, Carlos turned into one of the narrow winding lanes with which
the semi-oriental city abounds, and finding himself safe from observation, cast a
hasty glance at the billet.
His eye just caught the words, ”His reverence the Lord Inquisitor–Don
Gonsalvo–after midnight–revelations of importance–strict secrecy.” What did it
all mean? Did the writer wish to inform him that his cousin intended betraying
him to the Inquisition? He did not believe it. But the sound of approaching foot-
steps made him thrust the paper hastily away; and in another moment his sleeve
was grasped by Gonsalvo.
”Give it to me,” said his cousin in a breathless whisper.
”Give you what?”
”The paper that born idiot and marplot put into thy hands, mistaking thee
for me. Curse the fool! Did he not know I was lame?”
Carlos showed the note, still holding it. ”Is this what you mean?” he asked.
”You have read it! Honourable!” cried Gonsalvo, with a bitter sneer.
”You are unjust to me. It bears no address; and I could not suppose other-
wise than that it was intended for myself. However, I only read the few discon-
nected words upon which my eye first chanced to fall.”
The cousins stood gazing in each other’s faces; as those might do that meet
in mortal combat, ere they close hand to hand. Each was pondering whether the
other was capable of doing him a deadly injury. Yet, after all, each held, at the
bottom of his heart, a conviction that the other might be trusted.
Carlos, though he had the greater cause for apprehension, was the first
to come to a conclusion. Almost with a smile he handed the note to Gonsalvo.
”Whatever yon mysterious billet may mean to Don Gonsalvo,” he said, ”I am
convinced that he means no harm to any one bearing the name of Alvarez de
Meñaya.”
”You will never repent that word. And it is true–in the sense you speak
it,” returned Gonsalvo, taking the paper from his hand. At that moment he was
irresolute whether to confide in Carlos or no. But the touch of his cousin’s hand
decided him. It was cold and trembling. One so weak in heart and nerve was
obviously unfit to share the burden of a brave man’s desperate resolve.
Carlos went his way, firmly believing that Gonsalvo intended no ill to him.
But what then did he intend? Had he solicited the Inquisitor for a private mid-
 cxxxiii

night interview merely to throw himself at his feet, and with impassioned elo-
quence to plead the cause of Doña Maria? Were ”important revelations” only a
blind to procure his admission?
Impossible! who, past the age of infancy, would kneel to the storm to im-
plore it to be still, or to the fire to ask it to subdue its rage? Perhaps some dreamy
enthusiast, unacquainted with the world and its ways, might still be found san-
guine enough for such a project, but certainly not Don Gonsalvo Alvarez de
Meñaya.
Or had he a bribe to offer? Inquisitors, like other Churchmen, were known
to be subject to human frailties; of course they would not touch gold, but, ac-
cording to a well-known Spanish proverb, you were invited to throw it into their
cowls. And Munebrãga could scarcely have fed his numerous train of insolent re-
tainers, decked his splendid barge with gold and purple, and brought rare plants
and flowers from every known country to his magnificent gardens, without very
large additions to the acknowledged income of the Inquisitor-General’s deputy.
But, again, not all the wealth of the Indies would avail to open the gates of the
Triana to an obstinate heretic, however it might modify the views of ”his Rev-
erence” upon the merits of a doubtful case. And even to procure a few slight
alleviations in the treatment of the accused, would have required a much deeper
purse than Gonsalvo’s.
Moreover, Carlos saw that the young man was ”bitter of soul;” ready for
any desperate deed. What if he meant to accuse himself. Amidst the careless
profanity in which he had been too wont to indulge, many a word had fallen from
his lips that might be contrary to sound doctrine in the estimation of Inquisitors,
comparatively lenient as they were to blasphemers. But what possible benefit to
Doña Maria would be gained by his throwing himself into the jaws of death? And
if it were really his resolve to commit suicide, by way of ending his own miseries,
he could surely accomplish the act in a more direct and far less painful manner.
Thus Carlos pondered; but in whatever way he regarded the matter, he
could not escape from the idea that his cousin intended some dangerous or fatal
step. Gonsalvo was too still, too silent. This was an evil sign. Carlos would have
felt comparatively easy about him had he made him shrink and shudder by an
outburst of the fiercest, most indignant curses. For the less emotion is wasted in
expression, the more remains, like pent-up steam, to drive the engine forward in
its course. Moreover, there was an evil light in Gonsalvo’s eye; a gleam like that
of hope, but hope that was certainly not kindled from above.
Although the very crisis of his own fate was now approaching, and every
faculty might have had full occupation nearer home, Carlos was haunted perpet-
ually by the thought of his cousin. It continued to occupy him not only during
his visits to his friends, but afterwards in the solitude and silence of his own
cxxxiv

apartment. We all know the strange perversity with which, in times of suspense
and sorrow, the mind will sometimes run riot upon matters irrelevant, and even
apparently trivial.
With slow footsteps the hours stole on; miserable hours to Carlos, except
in so far as he could spend them in prayer, now his only resource and refuge.
After pleading for himself, for Juan, for his dear imprisoned brethren and sisters,
he named Gonsalvo; and was led most earnestly to implore God’s mercy for his
unhappy cousin. As he thought of his misery, so much greater than his own;
his loneliness, without God in the world; his sorrow, without hope,–his pleading
grew impassioned. And when at last he rose from his knees, it was with that
sweet sense that God would hear–nay, that he had heard–which is one of the
mysteries of the new life, the precious things that no man knoweth save he that
receiveth them.
Then, believing it was nearly midnight, he quickly finished his simple
preparations, took his guitar (which had now lain unused for a long time), and
sallied forth from his chamber.

XXVI.
Don Gonsalvo’s Revenge

”Our God, the all just,

Unto himself reserves this royalty,
The secret chastening of the guilty heart;
The fiery touch, the scourge that purifies–
Leave it with him. Yet make not that thy trust;
For that strong heart of thine–oh, listen yet!–
Must in its depths o’ercome the very wish
Of death or torture to the guilty one,
Ere it can sleep again.”–Hemans

Don Manuel’s house had once belonged to a Moorish Cid, or lord. It had

been assigned to the first Conde de Nuera, as one of the original conquistadors
of Seville; and he had bequeathed it to his second son. It had a turret, after the
Moorish fashion, and the upper chamber of this had been given to Carlos on his
 cxxxv

first arrival in the city; from an idea that the theological student would require
a solitary place for study and devotion, or, at least, that it would be decorous to
suppose so. The room beneath had been occupied by Don Juan, but since his de-
parture it was appropriated by Gonsalvo, who liked solitude, and took advantage
of his improved health to escape from the ground-floor, to which his infirmities
had long confined him.
As Carlos stole noiselessly down the narrow winding stair, he noticed a
light in his cousin’s room. This in itself did not surprise him. But he certainly
felt a little disconcerted when, just as he passed the door, Don Gonsalvo opened
it, and met him face to face. He also was fully equipped in sword and cloak, and
carried a torch in his hand.
”Vaya, vaya, Don Carlos,” he said reproachfully; ”after all, thou couldst not
trust me.”
”Nay, I did trust you.”
From fear of being overheard, both entered the nearest room–Don
Gonsalvo’s–and its owner closed the door softly.
”You are stealing away from fear of me, and thereby throwing yourself into
the fire. Do it not, Don Carlos; be advised, and do it not.” He spoke earnestly, and
without a shadow of the old bitterness and sarcasm.
”Nay, it is not thus. My flight was planned ere yesterday; and in concert
with one who both can and will provide me with the means of safety. It is best I
should go.”
”Enough said then,” returned Gonsalvo, more coldly. ”Farewell; I seek not
to detain you. Farewell; for though we may go forth together, our paths divide,
and for ever, at the door.”
”Your path is perhaps less safe than mine, Don Gonsalvo.”
”Talk of what you understand, cousin. My path is safety itself. And now
that I think of it (if you could be trusted), you might aid me perhaps. Did you
know all, I dare not doubt that you would rejoice to do it.”
”God knows how joyfully I would aid you if I could, Don Gonsalvo. But I
fear you are bound on a useless, and worse than useless, errand.”
”You know not my errand.”
”But I know to whom you go this night. Oh, my cousin, is it possible you
can dream that prayer of yours will soften hearts harder than the nether mill-
stone?”
”I know the way to one heart; and though it be the hardest of all, I shall
reach it.”
”Were you to pour the wealth of El Dorado at the feet of Gonzales de Mune-
brãga, he neither would nor could unloose one bolt of that prison.”
Gonsalvo’s wild look changed suddenly into one of wistful earnestness,
cxxxvi

almost of tenderness. He said, lowering his voice,–

”Near as death, the revealer of secrets, may be to me, there are still some
questions worth the asking. Perchance you can throw a gleam of light upon this
horrible darkness. We are speaking frankly now, and as in God’s presence. Tell
me, it that charge true?”
”Frankly, and in the sense in which you ask–it is.”
The last fatal words Carlos only whispered. Gonsalvo made no answer; but
a kind of momentary spasm passed across his face.
Carlos at length went on in a low voice: ”She knew the Evangel long before
I did, though she is so young–not yet one-and-twenty. She was the pupil of Dr.
Egidius; but he was wont to say he learned more from her than she did from him.
Her keen, bright intellect cut through sophistries, and reached truth so quickly.
And God gave her abundantly of his grace; making her willing, for that truth,
to endure all things. Oft have I seen her sweet face kindle and glow whilst he
who taught us spoke of the joy and strength given to those that suffer for the
name of Christ. I am persuaded He is with her now, and will be with her even
to the end. Could you gain access to her where she is, I think she would tell you
she possesses a treasure of peace of which neither death nor suffering, neither
cruelty of fiends nor worse cruelty of fiend-like men, can avail to rob her.”
”She is a saint–she will be a blessed saint in heaven, let them say what they
may,” murmured Gonsalvo hoarsely. Then the fierce look returned to his face
again. ”But I think the old Christians of Castile, the men whose good swords
made the infidels bite the dust, and planted the cross on their painted towers, are
no better than curs and dastards.”
”In that they suffer these things?”
”Yes; a thousand times, yes. In the name of man’s honour and woman’s
loveliness, are there, in our good city of Seville, neither fathers, nor brothers, nor
lovers left alive? No man who thinks the sweetest eyes ever seen worth six inches
of steel in five skilful fingers? No one man, save the poor forgotten cripple, Don
Gonsalvo Alvarez. But he thanks God this night that he has spared his life, and
left strength enough in his feeble limbs to bear him into a murderer’s presence.”
”Don Gonsalvo! what do you mean?” cried Carlos, shrinking from him.
”Lower thy voice, an’ it please thee. But why should I fear to tell thee–
thee, who hast good cause to be the death-foe of Inquisitors? If thou art not
cur and dastard too, thou wilt applaud and pray for me. For I suppose heretics
pray, at least as well as Inquisitors. I said I would reach the heart of Gonzales de
Munebrãga this night. Not with gold. There is another metal of keener temper,
which enters in where even gold cannot come.”
”Then you mean–murder?” said Carlos, again drawing near him, and laying
his hand on his arm. Gonsalvo sank into a seat, half mechanically, half from an
 cxxxvii

instinct that led him to spare the strength he would need so sorely by-and-by.
In the momentary pause that followed, the clock of San Vicente tolled the
midnight hour.
”Yes,” replied Gonsalvo steadily; ”I mean murder–as the shepherd does who
strangles the wolf with his paw on the lamb.”
”Oh, think–”
”I have thought of everything. And mark me, Don Carlos, I have but one
regret. It is that my weapon deals an instantaneous death. Such revenge is poor
and flavourless after all. I have heard of poisons whose least drop, mingling with
the blood, ensures a slow agonizing death–time to learn what torture means, and
to drain to the dregs the cup filled for others–to curse God and man ere he dies.
For a phial of such, wherewith to anoint my blade, I would sell my soul to-night.”
”O Gonsalvo, this is horrible! They are wild, wicked words you speak. Pray
God to pardon you!”
”I adjure him by his justice to prosper me,” said Gonsalvo, raising his head
defiantly.
”He will not prosper you. And do you dream that such a mad achievement
(suppose you even succeed in it) will open prison-doors and set captives free?
Alas! alas! that we are not at the mercy of a tyrant’s will. For tyrants, the worst
of them, sometimes relent; and–they are mortal. That which is crushing us is not
a living being, an organism with nerves, and brain, and blood. It is a system, a
THING, a terrible engine, that moves on in its resistless way, cold and lifeless,
without will or feeling. Strong as adamant, it kills, tortures, destroys; obeying
laws far away out of our sight. Were Valdez and Munebrãga, and all the Board
of Inquisitors, dead corpses by the morning light, not a single dungeon in the
Triana would open its pitiless gate.”
”I do not believe that,” replied Gonsalvo, rather more quietly. ”Surely there
must be some confusion, of which advantage may be taken by friends of the
prisoners. This, indeed, is the motive which now induces me to confide in you.
You may know those who, if they had the chance, could strike a shrewd blow to
save their dearest on earth from torture and death.”
But Gonsalvo read no answer in the sorrowful face of Carlos to the search-
ing look of inquiry with which he said this. After a silence he went on,–
”Suppose the worst, however. The Holy Office sorely needs a little blood-
letting, and will be much the better for it. Whoever succeeds, Munebrãga will
have my dagger flashing in his eyes, and will take care how he deals with his
prisoners, and whom he arrests.”
”I implore you to think of yourself,” said Carlos.
Gonsalvo smiled. ”I know I shall pay the forfeit,” he said, ”even as those
who slew the Inquisitor Pedro Arbues before the high altar in Saragossa, But”–
cxxxviii

here the smile faded, and the stern set look returned to his face–”I shall not pay
more, for a man’s triumphant vengeance, than those fiends will dare to inflict
upon a tender, delicately nurtured girl for the crime of a mystic meditation, or a
few words of prayer not properly rounded off with an Ave.”
”True. But then you will suffer alone. She has God with her.”
”I can suffer alone.”
For that word Carlos envied him. He shrank in terror from loneliness, from
suffering, shuddering at the very thought of the dungeon and the torture-room.
And just then the first quarter of his hour of grace chimed from the clock of San
Vicente. What if he and Pepe should fail to meet? He would not think of that
now. Whatever happened, Gonsalvo must be saved. He went on,–
”Here you can suffer alone and be strong. But how will you endure the
loneliness of the long hereafter, away from God’s presence, from light and life
and hope? Are you content that you, and she for whom you give your life, should
be sundered throughout eternity?”
”Nay; I am casting my lot in with hers. If the Church curses her (pure and
holy as she ever was), its anathema shall fall on me too. If only the Church’s key
opens heaven, she and I will both stand without.”
”Yet you know she will enter heaven. Shall you?”
Gonsalvo hesitated. ”It will not be the blood of a villain that will bar my
way,” he said.
”God says, ’Thou shall not kill.’”
”Then what will he do with Gonzales de Munebrãga?”
”He will do that with him of which, if you but dreamed, it would change
your fiercest hate into saddest, deepest pity. Have you realized what a span is our
life here compared with the countless ages of eternity? Think! For God’s chosen
a few weeks, or months at most, of solitude and fear and pain, ended perhaps
by–but that is as he pleases; ended, at all events. Then add up the million years,
fill them with the joy of victory, and the presence and love of Christ himself. Can
they not, and we for them, be content with this?”
”Are you content with it yourself?” Gonsalvo suddenly interrupted. ”You
seek flight.”
The glow faded from the face of Carlos, and his eyes sank to the ground.
”Christ has not called me yet,” he answered in a lower tone. There was a silence;
then he resumed: ”Turn now to the other side. Would you change, even this hour,
with Gonzales de Munebrãga? But take him from his wealth, and his pomp, and
his sinful luxuries, all defiled with blood, and what remains for him? Everlasting
fire, prepared for the devil and his angels.”
”Everlasting fire!” Gonsalvo repeated, as if the thought pleased him.
”Leave him in God’s hand. It is a stronger hand than yours, Don Gonsalvo.”
 cxxxix

”Everlasting fire! I would send him there to-night.”

”And whither would you send your own sinful soul?”
”God might pardon, though the Church cursed.”
”Possibly. But to enter God’s heaven you need something besides pardon.”
”What?” asked Gonsalvo, half wearily, half incredulously.
”’Holiness; without which no man can see the Lord.’”
”Holiness?” Gonsalvo questioned, as if the word was strange to him, and
he attached no meaning to it.
”Yes,” Carlos went on, with intense and ever increasing earnestness; ”un-
less, even from that passionate heart of yours, revenge and hatred are banished,
you can never see God, never come where–”
”Hold thy peace, trifler!” Gonsalvo interrupted with angry impatience.
”Too long have I tarried, listening to thine idle talk. Priests and women are con-
tent with words; brave men act. Farewell to thee!”
”One word more, only one.” Carlos drew near and laid his hand on his
cousin’s arm. ”Nay, you shall listen to me. Seemeth it to you a thing incredi-
ble that that heart of yours can be changed and softened to a love like His who
prayed on the cross for his murderers? Yet it can be. He can do it. He gives par-
don, holiness, peace. Peace of which you dream not now, but which she knows
full well. O Don Gonsalvo, better join her where she is going, than wildly, rashly,
and most uselessly peril your soul to avenge her!”
”Uselessly! Were that true indeed–”
”Ay de mi! who can doubt it?”
”Would I had time for thought!”
”Take it, in God’s name, and pray him to keep you from a great crime.”
For a few moments he sat still–still as the dead. Then he started suddenly.
”Already the hour is passing,” he exclaimed; ”I shall be too late. Fool that I was, to
be almost moved from my purpose by the idle words of a–The weakness is past
now. Still, ere we part, give me thy hand, Don Carlos, for, on my faith, I never
liked thee half so well.”
Very sorrowfully Carlos extended it, rather wondering as he did so that the
energetic Gonsalvo failed to spring from his seat and prepare to be gone.
Gonsalvo stirred not, even to take the offered hand. A deathlike paleness
overspread his face, and a cry of terror had well nigh broken from his lips. But
he choked it back.
”Something is strangely wrong with me,” he faltered. ”I cannot move. I feel
dead–dead–from the waist down.”
”God has spoken to you from heaven,” said Carlos solemnly. He felt as if a
miracle had been wrought in his presence. His Protestantism had not freed him
from the superstitions of his age. Had he lived three centuries later, he would
cxl

have seen nothing miraculous in the disease with which Gonsalvo was stricken,
but rather have called it the natural result of intense agitation and excitement,
acting upon a frame already weakened.
Yet the reckless Gonsalvo was the more superstitious of the two. He was
at war with the creed in which he had been nurtured; but that older and deeper
kind of superstition which has its root in human nature had, for this very reason,
a stronger hold upon him.
”Dead–dead!” he repeated, the words falling from his lips in broken, awe-
struck whispers. ”The limbs I misused! The feet that led me into sin! God–God
have mercy upon me! It is thy hand!”
”It is his hand; a sign he has not forsaken thee; that he means to bring thee
back to himself. Oh, my cousin, do not despair. Hope yet in his mercy, for it is
great.”
Carlos knelt down beside him, took his passive hand in his, and spoke
earnest, loving words of hope and comfort. The last quarter, ere the single stroke
that should announce that the hour appointed for his own flight was past, chimed
from the clock on the church tower. Yet he did not move–he had forgotten self.
At last, however, he said, ”But it may be something can be done to relieve you.
You ought to have medical aid without delay. I should have thought of this be-
fore. I will rouse the household.”
”No; that would endanger you. Go on your way, and bid the porter do it
when you are gone.”
It was too late, the household was roused. A loud authoritative knocking
at the outer gate sent the blood back from the hearts of both with sudden and
horrible fear.
There was a sound of opening gates, followed by footsteps–voices–cries.
Gonsalvo was the first to understand all. ”The Alguazils of the Holy Office!”
he exclaimed.
”I am lost!” cried Carlos, large drops gathering on his brow.
”Conceal yourself,” said Gonsalvo; but he knew his words were vain. Al-
ready his quick ear had caught the sound of his cousin’s name; and already foot-
steps were on the stairs.
Carlos glanced round the room. For a moment his eye rested on the win-
dow, eighty feet above the ground. Better spring from it and perish! No, that
would be self-murder. In God’s name he would await them manfully.
”You will be searched,” Gonsalvo whispered hurriedly; ”have you aught
about your person that may add to your danger?”
Carlos drew from its place of concealment the heroic Juliano’s treasured
gift.
”I will hide it,” said his cousin; and taking it hastily, he slipped it beneath
 cxli

his inner vest, where it lay in strange neighbourhood with a small, exquisitely
tempered poniard, destined never to be used.
The torch-light within, perhaps the voices, guided the Alguazils to that
room. A hand was placed on the door. ”They are coming, Don Carlos,” cried
Gonsalvo; ”I am thy murderer.”
”No–no fault of thine. Always remember that,” said Carlos, in his sharpest
anguish generous still. Then for one brief moment, that seemed an age, he was
deaf to all outward things. Afterwards he was himself again.
And something more than himself perhaps. Now, as in other moments of
intense excitement, the spirit of his race descended on him. When the Alguazils
entered, it was Don Carlos Alvarez de Santillanos y Meñaya who met them, with
folded arms, with steadfast eye, and pale but dauntless forehead.
All was quiet, regular, and most orderly. Don Manuel, roused from his
slumbers, appeared with the Alguazils, and respectfully requested a sight of the
warrant upon which they proceeded.
It was produced; and all could see that it was duly signed, and sealed with
the famous seal–the sword and olive branch, the dog with the flaming brand, the
sorely outraged, ”Justitia et misericordia.”
Had Don Manuel Alvarez been king of all the Spains, and Carlos his heir-
apparent, he dared not have offered the least resistance then. He had no wish to
resist, however; he bowed obsequiously, and protested his own and his family’s
devotion to the Faith and the Holy Office. But he added (perhaps merely as a
matter of form), that he could bring many witnesses of unimpeachable character
to testify to his nephew’s orthodoxy, and hoped to succeed in clearing him from
whatever odious imputation had induced their Reverences to order his arrest.
Meanwhile Gonsalvo gnashed his teeth in impotent rage and despair. He
would have bartered his life for two minutes of health and strength in which to
rush suddenly on the Alguazils, and give Carlos time to escape, let the conse-
quences of such frantic audacity be what they might. But the bands of disease,
stronger than iron, made the body a prison for the indignant, tortured spirit.
Carlos spoke for the first time. ”I am ready to go with you,” he said to the
chief of the Alguazils. ”Do you wish to examine my apartment? You are welcome.
It is the chamber over this.”
Having gone over every detail of such a scene a thousand times in imagina-
tion, he knew that the examination of papers and personal effects usually formed
a part of it. And he had no fears for the result, as, in preparation for his flight,
he had carefully destroyed everything that he thought could implicate himself or
any one else.
”Don Carlos–cousin!” cried Gonsalvo suddenly, as surrounded by the offi-
cers he was about to leave the room. ”Vaya con Dios! A braver man than you
cxlii

have I never seen.”

Carlos turned on him one long, sorrowful gaze. ”Tell Ruy,” he said. That
was all.
Then there was trampling of footsteps overhead, and the sound of voices,
not excited or angry, but cool, business-like, even courteous.
Then the footsteps descended, passed the door of Gonsalvo’s room,
sounded along the corridor, grew fainter on the great staircase, died away in
the court.
Less than an hour afterwards, the great gate of the Triana opened to receive
a new victim. The grave familiar held it, bowing low, until the prisoner and his
guard had passed through. Then it was swung to again, and barred and bolted,
shutting out from Don Carlos Alvarez all help and hope, all charity and all mercy–
save only the mercy of God.

XXVII.
My Brother’s Keeper

”Since she loved him, he went carefully,

Bearing a thing so precious in his hand.”–George Eliot

About a week afterwards, Don Juan Alvarez dismounted at the door of his un-

cle’s mansion. His shout soon brought the porter, a ”pure and ancient Christian,”
who had spent nearly all his life in the service of the family.
”God save you, father,” said Juan. ”Is my brother in the house!”
”No, señor and your worship,”–the old man hesitated, and looked confused.
”Where shall I find him, then?” cried Juan; ”speak at once, if you know.”
”May it please your noble Excellency, I–I know nothing. At least–the Saints
have mercy on us!” and he trembled from head to foot.
Juan thrust him aside, nearly knocking him down in his haste, and dashed
breathless into his uncle’s private room, on the right hand side of the patio.
Don Manuel was there, seated at a table, looking over some papers.
”Where is my brother?” asked Juan sternly and abruptly, searching his face
with his keen dark eyes.
 cxliii

”Holy Saints defend us!” cried Don Manuel, nearly startled out of his ordi-
nary decorum. ”And what madness brings you here?”
”Where is my brother?” Juan repeated, in the same tone, and without mov-
ing a muscle.
”Be quiet–be reasonable, nephew Don Juan. Do not make a disturbance; it
will be worse for all of us. We did all we could–”
”For Heaven’s sake, señor, will you answer me?”
”Have patience. We did all we could for him, I was about to say; and more
than we ought. The fault was his own, if he was suspected and taken–”
”Taken! Then I come too late.” Sinking into the nearest seat, he covered his
face with both hands, and groaned aloud.
Don Manuel Alvarez had never learned to reverence the sacredness of a
great sorrow. ”Rushing in” where such as he might well fear to tread, he pre-
sumed to offer consolation. ”Come, then, nephew Don Juan,” he said, ”you know
as well as I do that ’water that has run by will turn no mill,’ and that ’there is no
good in throwing the rope after the bucket.’ No man can alter that which is past.
All we can do is to avoid worse mischief in future.”
”When was it?” asked Juan, without looking up.
”A week agone.”
”Seven days and nights!”
”Thereabouts. But you–are you in love with destruction yourself, that,
when you were safe and well at Nuera, you must needs come hither again?”
”I came to save him.”
”Unheard of folly! If you have been meddling with these matters–and
it is but too likely, seeing you were always with him (though, the Saints for-
bid I should suspect an honourable soldier like you of anything worse than
imprudence)–do you not know they will wring the whole truth out of him with
very little trouble, and your life is not worth a brass maravedì?”
Juan started to his feet, and glared scorn and defiance in his uncle’s face.
”Whoever dares to hint so vile a slander,” he cried, ”by my faith he shall repent it,
were he my uncle ten times over. Don Carlos Alvarez never did, and never will,
betray a trust, let those wretches deal with him as they may. But I know him;
he will die, or worse,–they will make him mad.” Here Juan’s voice failed, and he
stood in silent horror, gazing on the dread vision that rose before his mind.
Don Manuel was daunted by his vehemence. ”You are the best judge your-
self of what amount of danger you may be incurring,” he said. ”But let me tell
you, Señor Don Juan, that I hold you rather a dangerous guest to harbour under
the circumstances. To have the Alguazils of the Holy Office twice in my house
would be enough to cost me all my places, not to mention the disgrace of it.”
”You shall not lose a real by me or mine,” returned Juan proudly.
cxliv

”I did not mean, however, to refuse you hospitality,” said Don Manuel, re-
lieved, yet a little uneasy, perhaps even remorseful.
”But I mean to decline it, señor. I have only two favours to ask of you,”
he continued: ”one, to allow me free intercourse with my betrothed; the other,
to permit me”–his voice faltered, stopped. With a great effort he resumed–”to
permit me to examine my brother’s room, and whatever effects he may have left
there.”
”Now you speak more rationally,” said his uncle, mistaking the self-control
of indignant pride for genuine calmness. ”But as to your brother’s effects, you
may spare your pains; for the Alguazils set the seal of the Holy Office upon them
on the night of his arrest, and they have since carried them away. As to the other
matter, what Doña Beatriz may think of the connection, after the infamy in which
your branch of the family is involved, I cannot tell.”
A burning flush mounted to Juan’s cheek as he answered, ”I trust my be-
trothed; even as I trust my brother.”
”You can see the lady herself. She may be better able than I to persuade
you to consult for your own safety. For if you are not a madman, you will return
at once to Nuera, which you ought never to have quitted; or you will take the
earliest opportunity of rejoining the army.”
”I shall not stir from Seville till I obtain my brother’s deliverance; or–” Juan
did not name the other alternative. Involuntarily he placed his hand on his belt,
in which he had concealed certain old family jewels, which he believed would
produce a considerable sum of money; for his last faint hope for Carlos lay in a
judicious appeal to the all-powerful ”Don Dinero.”[#]

[#] The Lord Dollar.

”You will never leave it, then,” said Don Manuel. ”And you must hold me excused
from aiding and abetting your folly. Your brother’s business has cost me and mine
more than enough already. I had rather ten thousand times that a man had died
of the plague in my house, were it for the scandal’s sake alone! Nor, bad as it is, is
the scandal all. Since that miserable night, my unhappy son Gonsalvo, in whose
apartment the arrest took place, has been sick unto death, and out of his mind.”
”Don Gonsalvo! What brought my brother to his room?”
”The devil, whose servant he is, may know; I do not. He was found there,
in his sword and cloak, as if ready to go forth, when the officers came.”
”Did he leave no message–no word for me?”
”Not one word. I know not if he spoke at all, save to offer to show the
 cxlv

Alguazils his personal effects. To do him justice, nothing suspicious was found
amongst them. But the less said on the subject the better. I wash my hands of
it, and of him. I thought he would have done honour to the family; but he has
proved its sorest disgrace.”
”Señor, what you say of him you say of me also,” said Juan, glowing white
with anger. ”And already I have heard quite enough.”
”That is as you please, Señor Don Juan.”
”I shall only trespass upon you for the favour you have promised me–
permission to wait upon Doña Beatriz.”
”I shall apprise her of your presence, and give her leave to act as she sees
fit.” And glad to put an end to the interview, Don Manuel left the room.
Juan sank into a seat once more, and gave himself up to an agony of grief
for his brother.
So absorbed was he in his sorrow, that a light footstep entered and ap-
proached unheard by him. At last a small hand touched his arm. He started and
looked up. Whatever his anguish of heart might be, he was still the loyal lover
of Doña Beatriz. So the next moment found him on his knees saluting that hand
with his lips. And then followed certain ceremonies abundantly interesting to
those who enact them, but apt to prove tedious when described.
”My lady’s devoted slave,” said Don Juan, using the ordinary language of
the time, ”bears a breaking heart to-day. We knew neither father nor mother;
there were but the two of us.”
”Did you not receive my letter, praying you to remain at Nuera?” asked the
lady.
”Pardon me, queen of my heart, in that I dared to disregard a wish of yours.
But I knew his danger, and I came to save him. Alas! too late.”
”I am not sure that I do pardon you, Don Juan.”
”Then, I presume so far as to say, that I know Doña Beatriz better than she
knows herself. Indeed, had I acted otherwise, she would scarce have pardoned
me. How would it have been possible for me to consult for my own safety, leaving
him alone and unaided, in such fearful peril?”
”You acknowledge there is peril–to you?”
”There may be, señora.”
”Ay de mi! Why, in Heaven’s name, have you thus involved yourself? O
Don Juan, you have dealt very cruelly with me!”
”Light of my eyes, life of my life, what mean you by these words?”
”Was it not cruel to allow your brother, with his gentle, winning ways, and
his soft specious words, to lead you step by step from the faith of our fathers,
until he had you entangled in I know not what horrible heresies, and made you
put in peril your honour, your liberty, your life–everything?”
cxlvi

”We only sought Truth.”

”Truth!” echoed the lady, with a contemptuous stamp of her small foot and
twirl of her fan. ”What is Truth? What good will Truth do me if those cruel men
drag you from your bed at midnight, take you to that dreadful place, stretch you
on the rack?” But that last horror was too much to bear; Doña Beatrix hid her
face in her hands, and wept and sobbed passionately.
Juan soothed her with every tender, lover-like art. ”I will be very prudent,
dearest lady,” he said at last; adding, as he gazed on her beautiful face, ”I have too
much to live for not to hold life very precious.”
”Will you promise to fly–to leave the city now, before suspicions are awak-
ened which may make flight impossible?”
”My first and my only love, I would die to fulfil your slightest wish. But
this thing I cannot do.”
”And wherefore not, Señor Don Juan?”
”Can you ask? I must hazard everything, spend everything, in the chance–
if there be a chance–of saving him, or, at least, of softening his fate.”
”Then God help us both,” said Doña Beatriz.
”Amen! Pray to him day and night, señora. Perhaps he may have pity on
us.”
”There is no chance of saving Don Carlos. Know you not that of all the
prisoners the Holy House receives, scarce one in a thousand goes forth again to
take his place in the world?”
Juan shook his head. He knew well that his task was almost hopeless; yet,
even by Doña Beatriz, he was not to be moved from his determination.
But he thanked her in strong, passionate words for her faith in him and her
truth to him. ”No sorrow can divide us, my beloved,” he said, ”nor even what
they call shame, falsely as they speak therein. You are my star, that shines on me
throughout the darkness.”
”I have promised.”
”My uncle’s family may seek to divide us, and I think they will. But the
lady of my heart will not heed their idle words?”
Doña Beatriz smiled. ”I am a Lavella,” she said. ”Do you not know our
motto?–’True unto death.’”
”It is a glorious motto. May it be mine too.”
”Take heed what you do, Don Juan. If you love me, you will look well to
your footsteps, since, wherever they lead, mine are bound to follow.” Saying this,
she rose, and stood gazing in his face with flushed cheek and kindling eyes.
The words were such as might thrill any lover’s heart with joy and grati-
tude. Yet there was something in the look which accompanied them that changed
joy and gratitude into vague fear and apprehension. The light in that dark eye
 cxlvii

seemed borrowed from the fire of some sublime but terrible resolve within. Juan’s
heart quailed, though he knew not why, as he said, ”My queen should never tread
except through flowery paths.”
Doña Beatriz took up a little golden crucifiz that, attached to a rosary of
coral beads, hung from her girdle. ”You see this cross, Don Juan?”
”Yes, señora mia.”
”On that horrible night when they dragged your brother to prison, I swore
a sacred oath upon it. You esteemed me a child, Don Juan, when you read me
chapters from your book, and talked freely to me about God, and faith, and the
soul’s salvation. Perchance I was a child in some things. For I supposed them
good words; how could they be otherwise, since you spoke them? I listened and
believed, after a fashion; half thinking all the time of the pretty fans and trinkets
you brought me, or of the pattern of such and such an one’s mantilla that I had
seen at mass. But your brother tore the veil from my eyes at last, and made me
understand that those specious words, with which a child played childishly, were
the crime that finds no pardon here or hereafter. Of the hereafter I know not; of
the here I know too much, God help me! There be fair ladies, not more deeply
involved than I, who have changed their gilded saloons for the dungeons of the
Triana. But then it matters not so much about me. For I am not like other girls,
who have fathers and mothers, sisters and brothers to care for them. Saving Don
Carlos (who was good to me for your sake), no one ever gave me more than the
half-sorrowful, half-pitying kindness one might give a pet parrot from the Indies.
Therefore, thinking over all things, and knowing well your reckless nature, Señor
Don Juan, I swore that night upon this holy cross, that if by evil hap you were
attainted for heresy, I would go next day to the Triana and accuse myself of the
same crime.”
Juan did not for a moment doubt that she would do it; and thus a chain,
light as silk but strong as adamant, was flung around him.
”Doña Beatriz, for my sake–” he began to plead.
”For my sake, Don Juan will take care of his life and liberty,” she interrupted,
with a smile that, if it had a little sadness, had very far more of triumph in it. She
knew the power her resolve gave her over him: she had bought it dearly, and she
meant to use it. ”Is it still your wish to remain here,” she continued; ”or will you
go abroad, and wait for better times?”
Juan paused for a moment.
”No choice is left me while Carlos pines uncomforted in a dungeon,” he said
at last, firmly, though very sorrowfully.
”Then you know what you risk, that is all,” answered the lady, whose will
was a match for his.
In a marvellously short time had love and sorrow transformed the young
cxlviii

and childish girl into a passionate, determined woman, with all the fire of her
own southern skies in her heart.
Ere he departed, Juan pleaded for permission to visit her frequently. But
here again she showed a keen-sighted apprehensiveness for him, which aston-
ished him. She cautioned him against their cousins, Manuel and Balthazar; who,
if they thought him in danger of arrest, were quite capable of informing against
him themselves, to secure a share of his patrimony. Or they might gain the same
end, without the disgrace of such a baseness, by putting him quietly out of the
way with their daggers. On all accounts, his frequent presence at the house would
be undesirable, and might be dangerous; but she agreed to inform him, by means
of certain signals (which they arranged together), when he might pay a visit to
her with safety. Then, having bidden her farewell, Don Juan turned his back on
his uncle’s house with a heavy heart.

XXVIII.
Reaping the Whirlwind

”All is lost, except a little life.”–Byron

Nearly a fortnight passed away before a tiny lace kerchief, fluttering at nightfall

through the jealous grating of one of the few windows of Don Manuel’s house
that looked towards the street, told Juan that he was at liberty to seek admission
the next day. He was permitted to enter; but he explored the patio and all the
adjacent corridors and rooms without seeing the face of which he was in search.
He did not, indeed, meet any one, not even a domestic; for it was the eve of the
Feast of the Ascension, and nearly all the household had gone to see the great
tabernacle carried in state to the Cathedral and set up there, in preparation for
the solemnities of the following day.
He thought this a good opportunity for satisfying his longing to visit the
apartment his brother had been wont to occupy. In spite of what his uncle had
said to the contrary, and indeed of the dictates of his own reason, he could not
relinquish the hope that something which belonged to him–perhaps even some
word or line traced by his hand–might reward his careful search.
 cxlix

He ascended the stairs; not stealthily, or as if ashamed of his errand, for

no one had the right to forbid him. He reached the turret without meeting any
one, but had hardly placed his foot upon the stair that led to its upper apartment,
when a voice called out, not very loudly,–
”Chien va?”
It was Gonsalvo’s. Juan answered,–
”It is I–Don Juan.”
”Come to me, for Heaven’s sake!”
A private interview with a madman is not generally thought particularly
desirable. But Juan was a stranger to fear. He entered the room immediately, and
was horror-stricken at the change in his cousin’s appearance. A tangled mass
of black hair mingled with his beard, and fell neglected over the pillow; while
large, wild, melancholy eyes lit up the pallor of his wasted face. He lay, or rather
reclined, on a couch, half covered by an embroidered quilt, but wearing a loose
doublet, very carelessly thrown on.
Of late the cousins had been far from friendly. Still Juan from compassion
stretched out his hand. But Gonsalvo would not touch it.
”Did you know all,” he said, ”you would stab me where I lie, and thus make
an end at once of the most miserable life under God’s heaven.”
”I fear you are very ill, my cousin,” said Juan, kindly; for he thought Gon-
salvo’s words the offspring of his wandering fancy.
”From the waist downwards I am dead. It is God’s hand: and he is just.”
”Does your physician give hope of your recovery from this seizure?”
With something like his old short, bitter laugh, Gonsalvo answered–”I have
no physician.”
”This must be one of his delusions,” thought Juan; ”or else, since he cannot
have Losada, he has refused, with his usual obstinacy, to see any one else.”
He said aloud,–”That is not right, cousin Don Gonsalvo. You ought not to
neglect lawful means of cure. Señor Sylvester Areto is a very skilful physician;
you might safely place yourself in his hands.”
”Only there is one slight objection–my father and my brothers would not
permit me to see him.”
Juan was in no doubt how to regard this statement; but hoping to extract
from him some additional information respecting his brother, he turned the con-
versation.
”When did this malady seize you?” he asked.
”Close the door gently, and I will tell you all. And oh! tread softly, lest my
mother, who lies asleep in the room beneath, worn out with watching, should
wake and separate us. Then must I bear my guilt and my anguish unconfessed
to the grave.”
cl

Juan obeyed, and took a seat beside his cousin’s couch.

”Sit where I can see your face,” said Gonsalvo; ”I will not shrink even from
that. Don Juan, I am your brother’s murderer.”
Juan started, and his colour changed rapidly.
”If I did not think you were mad–”
”I am no more mad than you are,” Gonsalvo interrupted. ”I was mad, indeed;
but that horrible night, when God smote my body, I regained my reason. I see all
things clearly now–too late.”
”Am I to understand, then,” said Juan, rising from his seat, and speaking
in measured tones, though his eye was like a tiger’s–”am I to understand that
you–you–denounced my brother? If so, thank God that you are lying helpless
there.”
”I am not quite so vile a thing as that. I did not intend to harm a hair of his
head; but I detained him here to his ruin. He had the means of escape provided,
and but for me would have been in safety ere the Alguazils came.”
”Well for both of us your guilt was not greater. Still, you cannot expect
me–just yet–to forgive you.”
”I expect no forgiveness from man,” said Gonsalvo, who perhaps disdained
to plead in his own exculpation the generous words of Carlos.
Juan had by this time changed his tone towards his cousin, and assumed
his perfect sanity; though, engrossed by the thought of his brother, he was quite
unconscious of the mental process by which he had arrived at this conclusion.
He asked,–
”But why did you detain him? How did you come to know at all of his
intended flight?”
”He had a safe asylum provided for him by some friend–I know not whom,”
said Gonsalvo, in reply. ”He was going forth at midnight to seek it. At the same
hour I also”–(for a moment he hesitated, but quickly went on)–”was going forth–
to plunge a dagger in my enemy’s heart. We met face to face; and each confided
his errand to the other. He sought, by argument and entreaty, to move me from a
purpose which seemed to him a great crime. But ere our debate was ended, God
laid his hand in judgment upon me; and whilst Don Carlos lingered, speaking
words of comfort–brave and kind, though vain–the Alguazils came, and he was
taken.”
Juan listened in gloomy silence.
”Did he leave no message, not one word, for me?” he asked at last, in a low
voice.
”Yes; one word. Filled with wonder at the calmness with which he met his
terrible fate, I cried out, as they led him from the room, ’Vaya con Dios, Don
Carlos, a braver man than you have I never seen!’ With one long mournful look,
 cli

that haunts me still, he said, ’Tell Ruy!’”

Strong man as he was, Don Juan Alvarez bowed his head and wept. They
were the first tears the great sorrow had wrung from him–almost the first that
he ever remembered shedding. Gonsalvo saw no shame in them.
”Weep on,” he said–”weep on; and thank God that thy tears are for sorrow
only, not for remorse.”
Hoarse and heavy sobs shook the strong frame. For some time they were
the only sounds that broke the stillness. At length Gonsalvo said, slowly,–
”He gave me something to keep, which in right should belong to thee.”
Juan looked up. Gonsalvo half raised himself, and drew a cushion from
beneath his head. First he took off its outer cover of fine holland; then he inserted
his hand into an opening that seemed like an accidental rip, and, not without
some trouble, drew out a small volume. Juan seized it eagerly: well did he know
his brother’s Spanish Testament.
”Take it,” said Gonsalvo; ”but remember it is a dangerous treasure.”
”Perhaps you are not sorry to part with it?”
”I deserve that you should say so,” answered Gonsalvo, with unwonted gen-
tleness. ”But the truth is,” he added, with a wan, sickly smile, ”nothing can part
me from it now, for I have learned almost every word of it by heart.”
”How could you, in so short a time, accomplish such a task?” asked Juan,
in surprise.
”Easily enough. I was alone long hours of the day, when I could read; and
in the silent, sleepless nights I could recall and repeat what I read during the day.
But for that I should be in truth what they call me–mad.”
”Then you love its words?”
”I fear them,” cried Gonsalvo, with strange energy, flinging out his wasted
arm over the counterpane. ”They are words of life–words of fire. They are, to the
Church’s words, the priest’s threatenings, the priest’s pardons, what your limbs,
throbbing with healthy vigorous life, are to mine–cold, dead, impotent; or what
the living champion–steel from head to heel, the Toledo blade in his strong right
hand–is to the painted San Cristofro on the Cathedral door. Because I dare to
say so much, my father pretends to think me mad; lest, wrecked as I am in mind
and body, I should still find one terrible consolation,–that of flinging the truth for
once in the face of the scribes and Pharisees, and then suffering for it–like Don
Carlos.”
He was silent from exhaustion, and lay with closed eyes and deathlike
countenance. After a long pause, he resumed, in a low, weak voice,–
”Some words are good–perhaps. There was San Pablo, who was a blasphe-
mer, and injurious.”
”Don Gonsalvo, my brother once said he would give his right hand that you
clii

shared his faith.”

”Oh, did he?” A quick flush overspread the wan face. ”But hark! a step on
the stairs! My mother’s.”
”I am neither afraid nor ashamed to be found here,” said Don Juan.
”My poor mother! She has shown me more tenderness of late than I de-
served at her hands. Do not let us involve her in trouble.”
Juan greeted his aunt with due courtesy, and even attempted some words of
condolence upon his cousin’s illness. But he saw that the poor lady was terribly
disconcerted, and indeed frightened, by his presence there. And not without
cause, since mischief, even to bloodshed, might have followed had Don Manuel
or either of his sons found Juan in communication with Gonsalvo. She conjured
him to go, adding, by way of inducement,–
”Doña Beatriz is taking the air in the garden.”
”Availing myself of your gracious permission, señora my aunt, I shall offer
her my homage there; and so I kiss your feet–Adiõs, Don Gonsalvo.”
”Adiõs, my cousin.”
Doña Katarina followed him out of the room.
”He is not sane,” she whispered anxiously, laying her hand on his arm; ”he
is out of his mind. You perceive it clearly, Don Juan?”
”Certainly I shall not dispute it, señora,” Juan answered, prudently.

XXIX.
A Friend at Court

”I have a soul and body that exact

A comfortable care in many ways.”–R. Browning

Don Juan’s peril was extreme. Well known as he was to many of the im-

prisoned Lutherans, it seemed a desperate chance that, amongst the numerous

confessions wrung from them, no mention of his name should occur. He knew
himself deeply implicated in the crime for which they were suffering–the one
unpardonable crime in the eyes of Rome. Moreover, unlike his brother, whose
temperament would have led him to avoid danger by every lawful means, he was
 cliii

by nature brave even to rashness, and bold even to recklessness. It was his cus-
tom to wear his heart on his lips; and though of late stern necessity had taught
him to conceal what he thought, it was neither his inclination nor his habit to
disguise what he felt. Probably, not even his desire to aid Carlos would have
prevented his compromising himself by some rash word or deed, had not the soft
hand of Doña Beatriz, strong in its weakness, held him back from destruction.
Not for one instant could he forget her terrible vow. With this for ever before
his eyes, it is little marvel if he was willing to do anything, to bear anything–ay,
almost to feign anything–rather than involve her he loved in a fate inconceivably
horrible.
And–alas for the brave, honest-hearted, truthful Don Juan Alvarez!–it was
often necessary to feign. If he meant to remain in Seville, and to avoid the dun-
geons of the Inquisition, he must obviate–or remove–suspicion by protesting,
both by word and action, his devotion to the Catholic Church, and his hatred of
heresy.
Could he stoop to this? Gradually, and more and more, as each day’s emer-
gency made it more and more necessary, he did stoop to it. He told himself it was
all for his brother’s sake. And though such a line of conduct was intensely re-
pugnant to his character, it was not contrary to his principles. To conceal an
opinion is one thing, to deny a friend quite another. And while Carlos had found
a Friend, Juan had only embraced an opinion.
He himself would have said that he had found Truth–had devoted himself
to the cause of Freedom. But where were truth and freedom now, with all the
bright anticipations of their ultimate triumph which he had been wont to in-
dulge? As far as his native land was concerned (and it must be owned that his
mental eye scarcely reached beyond ”the Spains”), a single day had blotted out
his glowing visions for ever. Almost at the same moment, and as if by some se-
cret preconcerted signal, the leading Protestants in Seville, in Valladolid, all over
the kingdom, had been arrested and thrown into prison. Swiftly, silently, with
the utmost order and regularity, had the whole thing been accomplished. Every
name that Juan had heard Carlos mention with admiration and sympathy was
now the name of a helpless captive. The Reformed Church of Spain existed no
longer, or existed only in dungeons.
In what quarter the storm had first arisen, that burst so suddenly upon the
community of the faithful, Don Juan never knew. It is probable the Holy Office
had long been silently watching its prey, waiting for the moment of action to
arrive. In Seville, it is said, a spy had been set upon some of Losada’s congrega-
tion, who revealed their meeting to the Inquisitors. While in Valladolid, the foul
treachery of the wife of one of the Protestants furnished the Holy Office with the
means of bringing her husband and his friends to the stake.
cliv

Don Juan, whose young heart had lately beat so high with hope, now bowed
his head in despair. And despairing of freedom, he lost his confidence in truth
also. In opinion he was still a decided Lutheran. He accepted every doctrine of
the Reformed as against the Roman Catholic creed. But the hold he once had
upon these doctrines as living realities was slackened. He did not doubt that
justification by faith was a scriptural dogma, but he did not think it necessary to
die for it. Compared with the tremendous interest of the fate of Carlos and the
peril of Beatriz, and amidst his desperate struggles to aid the one and shield the
other, doctrinal questions grew pale and faint to him.
Nor had he yet learned to throw himself, in utter weakness, upon a strength
greater than his own, and a love that knows no limits. He did not feel his weak-
ness: he felt strong, in the strength of a brave heart struggling against cruel
wrong; strong to resist, and, if it might be, to conquer his fate.
At first he cherished a hope that his brother was not actually in the secret
dungeons of the Inquisition. For so great was the number of the captives, that
the public gaols of the city and the convent prisons were full of them; and some
had to be lodged even in private houses. As Carlos had been one of the last
arrested, there seemed reason to suppose that he might be amongst those thus
accommodated; in which case it would be much easier both to communicate with
him, and to alleviate his fate, than if he were within the gloomy walls of the
Triana; there might be, moreover, the possibility of forming some plan for his
deliverance.
But Juan’s diligent and persevering search resulted at last in the conviction
that his brother was in the ”Santa Casa” itself. This conviction sent a chill to his
heart. He shuddered to think of his present suffering, whilst he feared the worst
for the future, supposing that the Inquisitors would take care to lodge in their own
especial fortress those whom they esteemed the most heinous transgressors.
He engaged a lodging in the Triana suburb, which the river, spanned by
a bridge of boats, separated from the city. There were several reasons for this
choice of residence; but by far the greatest was, that those who lingered beneath
the walls of the grim old castle could sometimes see, behind its grated windows,
spectral faces raised to catch the few scanty gleams of daylight which fell to
their lot. Long weary hours did Juan watch there, hoping to recognize the face
he loved. But always in vain.
When he went into the city, it was sometimes for other purposes than to
visit Doña Beatriz. It was as often to seek the precincts of the magnificent Cathe-
dral, and to pace up and down that terrace whose massive truncated pillars, raised
when the Romans founded a heathen temple on the spot, had stood throughout
the long ages of Moslem domination. Now the place was consecrated to Chris-
tian worship, and yet it was put to no hallowed use. Rich merchants, in many
 clv

a varying garb, that told of different nations, trod the stately colonnade, and
bought and sold and made bargains there. For in those days (strange as seems to
us the irreverence of the so-called ”ages of faith”) that terrace was the royal ex-
change of Seville, then a mercantile city of great importance. Don Juan Alvarez
diligently resorted thither, and held many a close and earnest conversation with
a keen-eyed, hawk-nosed Jew, whom he met there.
Isaac Osorio, or more properly, Isaac ben Osorio, was a notorious money-
lender, who had often ”obliged” Don Manuel’s sons, not unfairly requiring heavy
interest to counter-balance the hazardous nature of his investments. Callings
branded as unlawful are apt to prove particularly gainful. The Jew was willing
to ”oblige” Don Juan also, upon certain conditions. He was not by any means
ignorant of the purpose for which his money was needed. Of course he was
himself a Christian in name, for none other would have been permitted to live
upon Spanish ground. But by what wrongs, tortures, agonies worse than death,
he and those like him had been forced to accept Christian baptism, will never
be known until Christ comes again to judge the false Church that has slandered
him. Will it be nothing in his sight that millions of the souls for whom he died
have been driven to hate his Name–that Name so unutterably precious?
Osorio derived grim satisfaction from the thought that the Christians were
now imprisoning, torturing, burning each other. It reminded him of the grand
old days in his people’s history, when the Lord of hosts was wont to stretch forth
his mighty arm and trouble the armies of the aliens, turning every man’s hand
against his brother. Let the Gentiles bite and devour one another, the child of
Abraham could look upon their quarrels with calm indifference. But if he had
any sympathy, it was for the weaker side. He was rather disposed to help a
Christian youth who was trying to save his brother from the same cruel fangs
in which so many sons of Israel had writhed and struggled. Don Juan, therefore,
found him accommodating, and even lenient. From time to time he advanced to
him considerable sums, first upon the jewels he brought with him from Nuera,
and then, alas! upon his patrimony itself.
Not without a keen pang did Juan thus mortgage the inheritance of his
fathers. But he began to realize the bitter truth that a flight from Spain, and a
new career in some foreign land, would eventually be the only course open to
him–if indeed he escaped with life.
Nor would the armies of Spain henceforth be more free to him than her
soil. Fortunately, the necessity for rejoining his regiment had not arisen. For the
brief war in which he served was over now; and as the promised captaincy had
not yet been assigned to him, he was at liberty for the present to remain at home.
He largely bribed the head-gaoler of the inquisitorial prison, besides sup-
plying him liberally with necessaries and comforts for his brother’s use. Caspar
clvi

Benevidio bore the worst of characters, both for cruelty and avarice; still, Juan
had no resource but to trust implicitly to his honour, in the hope that at least
some portion of what he gave would be allowed to reach the prisoner. But not
a single gleam of information about him could be gained from Benevidio, who,
like all other servants of the Inquisition, was bound by a solemn oath to reveal
nothing that passed within its walls.
He also bribed some of the attendants and satellites of the all-powerful
Inquisitor, Munebrãga. It was his desire to obtain a personal interview with the
great man himself, that he might have the opportunity of trying the intercession
of Don Dinero, to whose advances he was known to be not altogether obdurate.
For the purpose of soliciting an audience, he repaired one evening to the
splendid gardens belonging to the Triana, to await the Inquisitor, who was ex-
pected shortly to return from a sail for pleasure on the Guadalquivir. He was
sick at heart of the gorgeous tropical plants that surrounded him, of the myrtle-
blossoms that were showered on his path; of all that told of the hateful pomp and
luxury in which the persecutor lived, while his victims pined unpitied in loath-
some dungeons. Yet neither by word, look, nor sign dared he betray the rage that
was gnawing his heart.
At length the shouts of the populace, who thronged the river’s side, an-
nounced the approach of their idol; for such Munebrãga was for the time. Clad
in costly silks and jewels, and surrounded by a brilliant little court, composed
both of churchmen and laymen, the ”Lord Inquisitor” stepped from his splen-
did purple-decked barge. Don Juan threw himself in his way, and modestly re-
quested an audience. His bearing, though perfectly respectful, was certainly less
obsequious than that to which Munebrãga had been accustomed of late. So the
minister of the Holy Office turned from him haughtily, though, as Juan bitterly
thought, ”his father would have been proud to hold the stirrup for mine.” ”This
is no fitting time to talk of business, señor,” he said. ”We are weary to-night, and
need repose.”
At that moment a Franciscan friar advanced from the group, and with his
lowest bow and most reverent manner approached the Inquisitor. ”With the gra-
cious permission of my very good lord, I shall address myself to the caballero,
and report his errand to your sanctity. I have the honour of some acquaintance
with his Excellency’s noble family.”
”As you please, Fray,” said the voice accustomed to speak the terrible words
that doomed to the rack and the pulley, though no one would have suspected this
from the bland, careless good-nature of its tones. ”But see that you tarry not so
as to lose your supper. Howbeit, there is little need to caution you, or any other
son of St. Francis, against undue neglecting of the body.”
The son of St. Francis made no answer, either because it was not worth
 clvii

while, or because those who take the crumbs from the rich man’s table must
ofttimes take his taunts therewith. He disengaged himself from the group, and
turned towards Juan a broad, good-humoured, not unintelligent face, which his
former pupil recognized immediately.
”Fray Sebastian Gomez!” he exclaimed in astonishment
”And very much at the service of my noble Señor Don Juan. Will your
Excellency deign to bear me company for a little time? In yonder walk there are
some rare flowers of rich colouring, which it were worth your while to observe.”
They turned into the path he indicated, while the Lord Inquisitor’s silken
train swept towards that half of the Triana where godless luxury bore sway; the
other half being consecrated to the twin demon, cruelty.
”Will it please your worship to look at these Indian pinks?” said the friar.
”You will not see that flower elsewhere in all the Spains, save in the royal gardens.
His Imperial Majesty brought it first from Tunis.”
Juan all but cursed the innocent flowers; but recollected in time that God
made them, though they belonged to Gonzales de Munebrãga. ”In Heaven’s
name, what brings you here, Fray Sebastian?” he interrupted impatiently. ”I
thought to see only the black cowls of St. Dominic about the–the minister of
the Holy Office.”
”A little more softly, may I implore of your Excellency? Yonder casement
is open.–Pues,[#] señor, I am here in the capacity of a guest. Nothing more.”

[#] Well, or well thou.

”Every man to his taste,” said Juan, drily, as with a heedless foot he kicked off
the beautiful scarlet flower of a rare cactus.
”Have a care, señor and your Excellency; my lord is very proud of his cactus
flowers.”
”Then come with me to some spot of God’s free earth where we can talk
together, out of sight of him and his possessions.”
”Nay, rest content, señor; and untire yourself in this fair arbour overlooking
the river.”
”At least, God made the river,” said Juan, flinging himself, with a sigh of
irritation and impatience, on the cushioned seat of the summer-house.
Fray Sebastian seated himself also. ”My lord,” he began to explain, ”has
received me with all courtesy, and is good enough to desire my continual atten-
dance. The fact is, señor, his reverence is a man of literary taste.”
Juan allowed himself the solace of a quiet sneer. ”Oh, is he? Very creditable
clviii

to him, no doubt.”
”Especially he is a great lover of the divine art of poesy.”
No genuine love of the gentle art, whose great lesson is sympathy, did or
could soften the Inquisitor’s hard heart. Nor, had his wealth been doubled, could
he have hired one real poet to sing his praise in strains worthy the ear of posterity.
In an atmosphere so cold, the most ethereal spirit would have frozen. But it was in
his power to buy flattery in rhyme, and it suited his inclination so to do. He liked
the trick of rhyme, at once so easy and so charming in the sonorous Castilian
tongue–it was a pleasure of the ear which he keenly appreciated, as he did also
those of the eye and the palate.
”I addressed to him,” Fray Sebastian continued with becoming modesty, ”a
little effort of my Muse–really a mere trifle–on the suppression of heresy, com-
paring the Lord Inquisitor to Michael the archangel, with the dragon beneath his
feet. You understand, señor?”
Juan understood so well that it was with difficulty he refrained from fling-
ing the unlucky rhymester into the river. But of late he had learned many a
lesson in prudence. Still, his words sounded almost fierce in their angry scorn.
”I suppose he gave you in return–a good dinner.”
But Fray Sebastian would not take offence. He answered mildly, ”He was
pleased to express his approval of my humble effort, and to admit me into his
noble household; where, except my poor exertions to amuse and untire him by
my conversation may be accounted a service, I am of no service to him whatever.”
”So you are clad in purple and fine linen, and fare sumptuously every day,”
said Juan, with contempt that he cared not to conceal.
”As to purple and fine linen, señor, I am an unworthy son of St. Francis; and
it is well known to your Excellency that by the rules of our Order not even one
scrap of holland—- But you are laughing at me, as you used in old times, Señor
Don Juan.”
”God knows, I have little heart to laugh. In those old times you speak of,
Fray, there was no great love between you and me; and no marvel, for I was a
wild and idle lad. But I think you loved my gentle brother, Don Carlos!”
”That I did, señor, as did every one. Has any evil come upon him? St.
Francis forbid!”
”Worse evil than I care to name. He lies in yonder tower.”
”The blessed Virgin have pity on us!” cried Fray Sebastian, crossing himself.
”I thought you would have heard of his arrest,” Juan continued, sadly.
”I, señor! Never a breath. Holy Saints defend us! How could I, or any one,
dream that a young gentleman of noblest race, well learned, and of truly pious
disposition, would have had the ill luck to fall under so foul a suspicion? Doubt-
less it is the work of some personal enemy. And–ah, woe is me! ’the clattering
 clix

horse-shoe ever wants a nail’–here have I been naming heresy, ’talking of halters
in the house of the hanged?’”
”Hold thy tongue about hanging,” said Juan, testily, ”and listen to me, if
thou canst.”
Fray Sebastian indicated, by a respectful gesture, his profound attention.
”It has been whispered to me that the door of his reverence’s heart may be
unlocked by a golden key.”
Fray Sebastian assured him this was a foul slander; concluding a panegyric
on the purity of the Inquisitor’s administration with the words, ”You would forfeit
his favour for ever by presuming so far as to offer a bribe.”
”No doubt,” answered Juan with a sneer, and a hard, worldly look in his
face that of late was often seen there. ”I should deserve to pay that penalty were
I the fool to approach him with a bow, and, ’Here is a purse of gold for your
sanctity.’ But ’one take is worth two I give you’s,’ and there is a way of saying
’take’ to every man. And I ask you, for old kindness, to show me how to say it to
his lordship.”
Fray Sebastian pondered. After an interval he said, with some hesitation,
”May I venture to inquire, señor, what means you possess of clearing the char-
acter of your noble brother?”
Juan only answered by a sorrowful shake of the head.
Darker and darker grew the friar’s sensual but good-natured face.
”His excellent reputation, his brilliant success at college, his blameless life
should tell in his favour,” Juan said at length.
”Have you nothing more direct? If not, I fear it is a bad business. But
’silence is called holy,’ so I hold my peace. Still, if indeed (which the Saints forbid)
he has fallen inadvertently into error, it is a comfort to reflect that there will be
little difficulty in reclaiming him.”
Juan made no reply. Did he expect his brother to retract? Did he wish him
to do it? These were questions he scarcely dared to ask himself. From any reply
he could give to them he shrank in shuddering dread.
”He was ever gentle and tractable,” Fray Sebastian continued, ”and ofttimes
but too easy to persuade.”
Juan rose, took up a stone, and threw it into the river. When the circles it
made in the water had died away, he turned back to the friar. ”But what can I
do for him?” he asked, with an undertone of helpless sadness, touching from the
lips of one so strong.
Fray Sebastian put his hand to his forehead, and looked as if he were com-
posing another poem. ”Let me see, your Excellency. There is my lord’s nephew
and pet page, Don Alonzo (where he has got the ’Don’ I know not, but Don Dinero
makes many a noble); I dare say it would not hurt the Donzelo’s soft white hand
clx

to finger a purse of gold ducats, and those same ducats might help your brother’s
cause not a little.”
”Manage the matter for me, and I will thank you heartily. Gold, to any
extent that will serve him, shall be forthcoming; and, my good friend, see that
you spare it not.”
”Ah, Señor Don Juan, you were always generous.”
”My brother’s life is at stake,” said Juan, softening a little. But the hard
look returned as he added, ”Those who live in great men’s houses have many
expenses, Fray. Always remember that I am your friend, and that my ducats are
very much at your service also.”
Fray Sebastian thanked him with his lowest bow. Juan’s look changed
again; this time more rapidly. ”If it were possible,” he added, in low, hurried
tones–”if you could only bring me the least word of tidings from him–even one
word to say if he lives, if he is well, how he is entreated. Three months it is now
since he was taken, and I have heard no more than if they had carried him to his
grave.”
”It is a difficult matter, a very difficult matter that you ask of me. Were I a
son of St. Dominic, I might indeed accomplish somewhat. For the black cowls
are everything now. Still, I will do all I can, señor.”
”I trust you, Fray. If under cover of seeking his conversion, of anything,
you could but see him.”
”Impossible, señor–utterly impossible.”
”Why? They sometimes send friars to reason with the–the prisoners.”
”Always Dominicans or Jesuits–men well-known and trusted by the Board
of the Inquisition. However, señor, nothing that a man may do shall be wanting
on my part. Will not that content your Excellency?”
”Content me? Well, as far as you are concerned, yes. But, in truth, I am
haunted day and night by one horrible dread. What if–if they should torture
him? My gentle brother, frail in mind and body, tender and sensitive as a woman!
Terror and pain would drive him mad.” The last words were a quick broken whis-
per. But outward expressions of emotion with Don Juan were always speedily
repressed. Recovering apparent calmness, he stretched out his hand to Fray Se-
bastian, saying, with a faint smile, ”I have kept you too long from my lord’s
supper-table–pardon me.”
”Your Excellency’s condescension in conversing with me deserves my pro-
found gratitude,” replied the monk, in true Castilian fashion. His residence at the
Inquisitor’s Court had certainly improved his manners.
Don Juan gave him his address, and it was agreed that he should call on
him in a few days. Fray Sebastian then offered to bring him on his way through
the garden and court of that part of the Triana which formed the Inquisitor’s
 clxi

residence. But Juan declined the favour. He could not answer for himself when
brought face to face with the impious pomp and luxury of the persecutor of the
saints. He feared that, by some wild word or deed, he might imperil the cause
he had at heart. So he hailed a waterman who was guiding his little boat down
the tranquil stream in the waning light. The boat was soon brought to the place
where the Inquisitor had landed from his barge; and Juan, after shaking the dust
from his feet, both literally and metaphorically, sprang into it.
The popular ideal of a persecutor is very far from the truth. At the word
there rises before most minds the vision of a lean, pale-faced, fierce-eyed monk,
whose frame is worn with fasting, and his scourge red with his own blood. He
is a fanatic–pitiless, passionate, narrow-minded, perhaps half insane–but pene-
trated to the very core of his being with intense zeal for his Church’s interest,
and prepared in her service both to inflict and to endure all things.
Very unlike this ideal were most of the great persecutors who carried out
the behests of Antichrist. They were generally able men. But they were pre-
eminently men wise in their generation, men of their generation, men who ”loved
this present world.” They gave the Church the service of strong hand and skilful
brain that she needed; and she gave them, in return, ”gold, and silver, and pre-
cious stones, and pearls; and fine linen, and purple, and silk, and scarlet; and all
sweet wood; and all manner of vessels of ivory, and all manner of vessels of most
precious wood, and of brass, and of iron, and marble; and cinnamon, and odours,
and ointment, and frankincense; and wine, and oil, and fine flour, and wheat;
and beasts, and sheep, and horses and chariots, and slaves and souls of men.” It
was for these things, not for abstract ideas, not for high places in heaven, that
they tortured and murdered the saints of God. Whilst the cry of the oppressed
reached the ears of the Most High, those who were ”wearing them out” lived in
unhallowed luxury, in degrading sensuality. Gonzales de Munebrãga was a good
specimen of the class to which he belonged–he was no exceptional case.
Nor was Fray Sebastian anything but an ordinary character. He was ami-
able, good-natured, free from gross vices–what is usually called ”well disposed.”
But he ”loved wine and oil,” and to obtain what he loved he was willing to be-
come the servant and the flatterer of worse men than himself, at the terrible risk
of sinking to their level.
With all the force of his strong nature, Don Juan Alvarez loathed Mune-
brãga, and scorned Fray Sebastian. Gradually a strange alteration appeared to
come over the little book he constantly studied–his brother’s Spanish Testa-
ment. The words of promise, and hope, and comfort, in which he used to delight,
seemed to be blotted from its pages; while ever more and more those pages were
filled with fearful threatenings and denunciations of doom–against hypocritical
scribes and Pharisees, false teachers and wicked high priests–against great Baby-
clxii

lon, the mother of abominations. The peace-breathing, ”Father, forgive them, for
they know not what they do,” grew fainter and more faint, until at last it faded
completely from his memory; while there stood out before him night and day, in
characters of fire, ”Serpents, generation of vipers, how can ye escape the damna-
tion of hell!”

XXX.
The Captive.

”Ay, but for me–my name called—drawn

Like a conscript’s lot from the lap’s black yawn
He has dipped into on the battle dawn.
Bid out of life by a nod, a glance,
Stumbling, mute mazed, at Nature’s chance
With a rapid finger circling round,
Fixed to the first poor inch of ground
To fight from, where his foot was found,
Whose ear but a moment since was free
To the wide camp’s hum and gossipry–
Summoned, a solitary man,
To end his life where his life began,
From the safe glad rear to the awful van.”–R. Browning

On the night of his arrest, when Don Carlos Alvarez was left alone in his

dungeon, he stood motionless as one in a dream. At length he raised his head, and
began to look around him. A lamp had been left with him; and its light illumined
a cell ten feet square, with a vaulted roof. Through a narrow grating, too high for
him to reach, one or two stars were shining; but these he saw not. He only saw
the inner door sheathed with iron; the mat of rushes on which he was to sleep; the
stool that was to be his seat; the two earthen pitchers of water that completed his
scanty furniture. From the first moment these things looked strangely familiar
to him. He threw himself on the mat to think and pray. He comprehended his
situation perfectly. It seemed as if he had been all his life expecting this hour;
as if he had been born for it, and led up to it gradually through all his previous
 clxiii

experience. As yet he did not think that his fate was terrible; he only thought that
it was inevitable–something that was to come upon him, and that in due course
had come at last. It was his impression that he should always remain there, and
never more see anything beyond that grated window and that iron door.
There was a degree of unreality about this mood. For the past fortnight, or
more, his mind had been strained to its utmost tension. Suspense, more wearing
even than sorrow, had held him on the rack. Sleep had seldom visited his eyes;
and when it came, it had been broken and fitful.
Now the worst had befallen him. Suspense was over; certainty had come.
This brought at first a kind of rest to the overtaxed mind and frame. He was as
one who hears a sentence of death, but who is taken off the rack. No dread of the
future could quite overpower the present unreasoning sense of relief.
Thus it happened that an hour afterwards he was sleeping the dreamless
sleep of exhaustion. Well for him if, instead of ”death’s twin-brother,” the angel
of death himself had been sent to open the prison doors and set the captive free!
And yet, after all, would it have been well for him?
So utter was his exhaustion, that when food was placed in his cell the next
morning, he only awaked for a moment, then slept again as soundly as before.
Not till some hours later did he finally shake off his slumber. He lay still for some
time, examining with a strange kind of curiosity the little bolted aperture which
was near the top of his door, and watching a solitary broken sunbeam which had
struggled through the grating that served him for a window, and threw a gleam
of light on the opposite wall.
Then, with a start, he asked himself, ”Where am I?” The answer brought
an agony of fear, of horror, of bitter pain. ”Lost! lost! God have mercy on me!
I am lost!” As one in intense bodily anguish, he writhed, moaned–ay, even cried
aloud.
No wonder. Hope, love, life–alike in its noblest aims and its commonest
joys–all were behind him. Before him were the dreary dungeon days and nights–
it might be months or years; the death of agony and shame; and, worst of all, the
unutterable horrors of the torture-room, from which he shrank as any one of us
would shrink to-day.
Slowly and at last came the large burning tears. But very few of them fell;
for his anguish was as yet too fierce for many tears. All that day the storm raged
on. When the alcayde brought his evening meal, he lay still, his face covered with
his cloak. But as night drew on he rose, and paced his narrow cell with hasty,
irregular steps, like those of a caged wild animal.
How should he endure the horrible loneliness of the present, the madden-
ing terror of all that was to come? And this life was to last. To last, until it should
be succeeded by worse horrors and fiercer anguish. Words of prayer died on his
clxiv

lips. Or, even when he uttered them, it seemed as if God heard not–as if those
thick walls and grated doors shut him out too.
Yet one thing was clear to him from the beginning. Deeper than all other
fears within him lay the fear of denying his Lord. Again and again did he repeat,
”When called in question, I will at once confess all.” For he knew that, according
to a law recently enacted by the Holy Office, and sanctioned by the Pope, no
subsequent retractation could save a prisoner who had once confessed–he must
die. And he desired finally and for ever to put it out of his own power to save his
life and lose it.
As every dreary morning dawned upon him, he thought that ere its sun set
he might be called to confess his Master’s name before the solemn tribunal. At
first he awaited the summons with a trembling heart. But as time passed on, the
delay became more dreadful than the anticipated examination. At last he began
to long for any change that might break the monotony of his prison-life.
The only person, with the exception of his gaoler, that ever entered his
cell, was a member of the Board of Inquisitors, who was obliged by their rules to
make a fortnightly inspection of the prisons. But the Dominican monk to whom
this duty was relegated merely asked the prisoner a few formal questions: such
as, whether he was well, whether he received his appointed provision, whether
his warder used him with civility. To these Carlos always answered prudently
that he had no complaint to make. At first he was wont to inquire, in his turn,
when his case might be expected to come on. To this it would be answered, that
there was no hurry about the matter. The Lords Inquisitors had much business
on hand, and many more important cases than his to attend to; he must await
their leisure and their pleasure.
At length a kind of lethargy stole over him; though it was broken frequently
by sharp bursts of anguish. He ceased to take note of time, ceased to make fruit-
less inquiries of his gaoler, who would never tell him anything. Upon one oc-
casion he asked this man for a Breviary, since he sometimes found it difficult to
recall even the gospel words that he knew so well. But he was answered in the set
terms the Inquisitors taught their officials, that the book he ought now to study
was the book of his own heart, which he should examine diligently, in order to
the confession and repentance of his sins.
During the morning hours the outer door of his cell (there were two) was
usually left open, in order to admit a little fresh air. At such times he often heard
footsteps in the corridors, and doors opening and shutting. With a kind of sick
yearning, not unmixed with hope, he longed that some visitant would enter his
cell. But none ever came. Some of the Inquisitors were keen observers and good
students of character. They had watched Carlos narrowly before his arrest, and
they had arrived at the conclusion that utter and prolonged solitude was the best
 clxv

remedy for his disease.

Such solitude has driven many a weary tortured soul to insanity. But that
divine compassion which no dungeon walls or prison bars avail to shut out, saved
Carlos from such a fate.
One morning he knew from the stir outside that some of his fellow-captives
had received a visit. But the deep stillness that followed the dying away of foot-
steps in the corridor was broken by a most unwonted sound. A loud, clear, and
even cheerful voice sang out,–

”Vençidos van los frailes; vençidos van!

Corridas van los lobos; corridos van!”

[There go the friars; there they run!

There go the wolves, the wolves are done!][#]

[#] Everything related of Juliano Hernandez is strictly true.

Every nerve and fibre of the lonely captive’s heart thrilled responsive to that
strain. Evidently the song was one of triumph. But from whose lips? Who could
dare to triumph in the abode of misery, the very seat of Satan?
Carlos Alvarez had heard that voice before. A striking peculiarity in the di-
alect rivetted this fact upon his mind. The words were neither the pure sonorous
Castilian that he spoke himself, nor the soft gliding sibilant Andaluz that he heard
in Seville, nor yet the patois of the Manchegan peasants around his mountain
home. In such accents one, and one alone, had ever spoken in his hearing. And
that was the man who said, ”For the joy of bringing food to the perishing, water to
the thirsty, light to those that sit in darkness, rest to the weary and heavy-laden,
I have counted the cost, and I shall pay the price right willingly.”
Whatever men had done to the body, it was evident that Juliano Hernandez
was still unbroken in heart, strong in hope and courage. A fettered, tortured
captive, he was yet enabled, not only to hold his own faith fast, but actually to
minister to that of others. His rough rhyme intimated to his fellow-captives that
”the wolves” of Rome were leaving his cell, vanquished by the sword of the Spirit.
And that, as he overcame, so might they also.
Carlos heard, understood, and felt from that hour that he was not alone.
Moreover, the grace and strength so richly given to his fellow-sufferer seemed to
bring Christ nearer to himself. ”Surely God is in this place–even here,” he said,
”and I knew it not.” And then, bowing his head, he wept–wept such tears as bring
clxvi

help and healing with them.

Up to this time he had held Christ’s hand indeed, else had he ”utterly
fainted.” But he held it in the dark. He clung to him desperately, as if for mere life
and reason. Now the light began to dawn upon him. He began to see the face of
Him to whom he had been clinging. His good and gracious words–such words
as, ”Let not your heart be troubled,” ”My peace I give unto you”–became again,
as in old times, full of meaning, instinct with life. He ”remembered the years
of the right hand of the Most High;” he thought of those days that now seemed
so long ago, when, with such thrilling joy, he received the truth from Juliano’s
book. And he knew that the same joy might be his even in that dreary prison,
because the same God was above him, and the same Lord was ”rich unto all that
call upon him.”
On the next occasion when Juliano raised his brave song of victory, Carlos
had the courage to respond, by chanting in the vulgar tongue, ”The Lord hear
thee in the day of trouble; the name of the God of Jacob defend thee. Send thee
help from the sanctuary, and strengthen thee out of Zion.”
But this brought him a visit from the alcayde, who commanded him to
”forbear that noise.”
”I only chanted a versicle from one of the Psalms,” he explained.
”No matter. Prisoners are not permitted to disturb the Santa Casa,” said
Gasper Benevidio, as he quitted the cell.
The ”Santa Casa,” or Holy House, was the proper style and title of the prison
of the Holy Inquisition. At first sight the name appears a hideous mockery. We
seem to catch in it an echo of the laughter of fiends, as in that other kindred
name, ”The Society of Jesus.” Yet, just then, the Triana was truly a holy house.
Precious in the sight of the Lord were those who crowded its dismal cells. Many a
lonely captive wept and prayed and agonized there, who, though now forgotten
on earth, shall one day shine with a brightness eclipsing kings and conquerors–”a
star for ever and ever.”

XXXI.
Ministering Angels.

”Thou wilt be near, and not forsake,

To turn the bitter pool
 clxvii

Into a bright and breezy lake,

The throbbing brow to cool;
Till, left awhile with Thee alone,
The wilful heart be fain to own
That he, by whom our bright hours shone,
Our darkness best may rule.”–Keble

The overpowering heat of an Andalusian summer aggravated the physical

sufferings of the captives. And so did the scanty and unwholesome provisions,
which were all that reached them through the hands of the avaricious Benevidio.
But this last hardship was little felt by Carlos. Small as were the rations he
received, they usually proved more than enough for him; indeed, the coarse food
sometimes lay almost untasted in his cell.
One morning, however, to his extreme surprise, something was pushed
through the grating in the lower part of his inner door, the outer door being
open, as was usual at that hour. The mysterious gift consisted of white bread
and good meat, of which he partook with mingled astonishment and thankful-
ness. But the relief to the unvaried monotony of his life, and the occupation the
little circumstance gave his thoughts, was much more to him than the welcome
novelty of a wholesome meal.
The act of charity was repeated often, indeed almost daily. Sometimes
bread and meat, sometimes fruit–the large luscious grapes or purple figs of that
southern climate–were thus conveyed to him. Endless were the speculations
these gifts awakened in his mind. He longed to discover his benefactor, not only
to express his gratitude, but to supplicate that the same favours might be ex-
tended to his fellow-sufferers, especially to Juliano. Moreover, would not one so
kindly disposed be willing to give him what he longed for far more than meat or
drink–some word of tidings from the world without, or from his dear imprisoned
brethren?
At first he suspected the under-gaoler, whose name was Herrera. This man
was far more gentle and compassionate than Benevidio. Carlos often thought he
would have shown him some kindness, or at least have spoken to him, if he
dared. But dire would have been the penalty even the slightest transgression
of the prison rules would have entailed. Carlos naturally feared to broach the
matter, lest, if Herrera really had nothing to do with it, the unknown benefactor
might be betrayed.
The same motive prevented his hazarding a question or exclamation at the
time the little gifts were thrust in. How could he tell who might be within hear-
ing? If it were safe to speak, surely the person outside would try the experiment.
clxviii

It was generally very early in the morning, at the hour when the outer door
was first opened, that the gifts came. Or, it delayed a little later, he would often
notice something timid and even awkward in the way they were pushed through
the grating, and the approaching and retreating footsteps, for which he used to
listen so eagerly, would be quick and light, like those of a child.
At last a day came, marked indeed with white in the dark chronicle of
prison life. Bread and meat were conveyed to him as usual; then there was a
low knock upon the door. Carlos, who was standing close to it, responded by an
eager ”Chien es?”
”A friend. Kneel down, señor, and put your ear to the grating.”
The captive obeyed, and a woman’s voice whispered, ”Do not lose heart,
your worship. Friends outside are thinking of you.”
”One friend is with me, even here,” Carlos answered. ”But,” he added, ”I
entreat of you to tell me your name, that I may know whom to thank for the
daily kindnesses which lighten my captivity.”
”I am only a poor woman, señor, the alcayde’s servant. And what I have
brought you is your own, and but a small part of it.”
”My own! How?”
”Robbed from you by my master, who defrauds and spoils the poor prison-
ers even of their necessary food. And if any one dares to complain to the Lords
Inquisitors, he throws him into the Masmurra.”
”The–what?”
”A deep, horrible cistern which he hath in his house.” This was spoken in
a still lower voice.
Carlos was not yet sufficiently naturalized to horrors to repress a shudder.
He said, ”Then I fear it is at great risk to yourself that you show kindness to me.”
”It is for the dear Lord’s sake, señor.”
”Then you–you too–love his Name!” said Carlos, tears of joy starting to his
eyes.
”Chiton,[#] señor! chiton! But as far as a poor woman may, I do love him,”
she added in a frightened whisper. ”What I want now to tell you is, that the noble
lord, your brother–”

[#] Hush.

”My brother!” cried Carlos; ”what of him? On, tell me, for Christ’s dear sake!”
”Let your Excellency speak lower. We may be overheard. I know he has
seen my master once and again, and has given him much money to provide your
 clxix

worship with good food and other conveniences, which he, however, not having
the fear of God before his eyes–” The rest of the sentence did not reach the ear
of Carlos; but he could easily guess its import.
”That is little matter,” he said. ”But oh, kind friend, if I could send him a
message, were it only one word.”
Perhaps the wistful earnestness of his tone awakened latent mother in-
stincts in the poor woman’s heart. She knew that he was very young; that he
had lain there for dreary months alone, away from the bright world into which
he was just entering, and which was now shut to him for ever.
”I will do all I can for your Excellency,” she said, in a tone that betrayed
some emotion.
”Then,” said Carlos, ”tell him it is well with me. ’The Lord is my shepherd’–
all that psalm, bid him read it. But, above all things, say unto him to leave this
place–to fly to Germany or England. For I fear, I fear–no, do not tell him what I
fear. Only implore of him to go. You promise?”
”I promise, young sir, to do all I can. God comfort him and you.”
”And God reward you, brave and kind friend. But one word more, if it
may be without risk to you. Tell me of my dear fellow-prisoners. Especially of
Dr. Cristobal Losada, Don Juan Ponce de Leon, Fray Constantino, and Juliano
Hernandez, called Juliano El Chico.”
”I do not know anything of Fray Constantino. I think he is not here. The
others you name have–suffered.”
”Not death!–surely not death!” said Carlos, in terror.
”There be worse things than death, señor,” the poor woman answered.
”Even my master, whose heart is iron, is astonished at the fortitude of Señor
Juliano. He fears nothing–seems to feel nothing. No tortures have wrung from
him a word that could harm any one.”
”God sustain him! Oh, my friend,” Carlos went on with passionate earnest-
ness, ”if by any deed of kindness, such as you have shown me, you could bring
God’s dear suffering servant so much comfort as a cup of cold water, truly your
reward would be rich in heaven. For the day will come when that poor man will
take his station in the court of the King of kings, and at the right hand of Christ,
in great glory and majesty.”
”I know it, señor. I have tried–”
Just then an approaching footstep made Carlos start; but the poor woman
said, ”It is only the child, God bless her. But I must go, señor; for she comes to
tell me her father has arisen, and is making ready to begin his daily rounds.”
”Her father! Does Benevidio’s own child help you to comfort his prison-
ers?”
”Even so, thank the good God. I am her nurse. But I must not linger another
clxx

moment. Adiõs, señor.”

”Vaya con Dios, good mother. And God repay your kindness, as he surely
will.”
And surely he did repay it; but not on earth, unless the honour of being
accounted worthy to suffer shame and stripes and cruel imprisonment for his
sake be called a reward.[#]

[#] The story of the gaoler’s servant and his little daughter is historical.

XXXII.
The Valley of the Shadow of Death.

”And shall I fear the coward fear of standing all alone

To testify of Zion’s King and the glory of his throne?
My Father, O my Father, I am poor and frail and weak,
Let me not utter of my own, for idle words I speak;
But give me grace to wrestle now, and prompt my faltering tongue.
And name thy name upon my soul, and so shall I be
strong.”–Mrs. Stuart Menteith

Many a weary hour did Carlos shorten by chanting the psalms and hymns

of the Church in a low voice for himself. At first he sang them loudly enough
for his fellow-prisoners to hear; but the commands of Benevidio, which were
accompanied even by threats of personal violence, soon made him forbear. Not
a few kindly deeds and words of comfort came to him through the ministrations
of the poor servant Maria Gonsalez, aided by the gaoler’s little daughter. On
the whole, he was growing accustomed to his prison life. It seemed as though it
would last for ever; as though every other kind of life lay far away from him in
the dim distance. There were slow and weary hours, more than he could count;
there were bitter hours–of passionate regret, of dark foreboding, of unutterable
fear. But there were also quiet hours, burdened by no special pain or sorrow;
there were sometimes even happy hours, when Christ seemed very near, and his
consolations were not small with his prisoner.
 clxxi

It was one of the quiet hours, when thoughts of the past, not full of the
anguish of vain yearning, as they often were, but calm and even pleasant, were
occupying his mind. He had been singing the Te Deum for himself; and thinking
how sweetly the village choristers used to chant it at Nuera; not in the time of
Father Tomas, but in that of his predecessor, a gentle old man with a special
taste for music, whom he and his brother, then little children, loved, but used
to tease. He was so deeply engaged in feeling over again his poignant distress
upon one particular occasion when Juan had offended the aged priest, that all
his present sorrows were forgotten for the moment, when he heard the large key
grate harshly in the strong outer door of his cell.
Benevidio entered, bearing some articles of dress, which he ordered the
prisoner to put on immediately.
Carlos obeyed in silence, though not without surprise, perhaps even a pass-
ing feeling of indignation. For the very form and fashion of the garments he was
thus obliged to assume (a kind of jacket without sleeves, and long loose trowsers),
meant to the Castilian noble keen insult and degradation.
”Take off your shoes,” said the alcayde. ”Prisoners always come before their
reverences with uncovered head and feet. Now follow me.”
It was, then, the summons to stand before his judges. A thrilling dread took
possession of his soul. Heedless of the alcayde’s presence, he threw himself for
one brief moment on his knees. Then, though his cheek was pale, he could speak
calmly. ”I am ready,” he said.
He followed his conductor through several long and gloomy corridors. At
length he ventured to ask, ”Whither are you leading me?”
”Chiton!” said Benevidio, placing his finger on his lips. Speech was not
permitted there.
At last they drew near an open door. The alcayde quickened his pace, en-
tered first, made a very low reverence, then drew back again, and motioned Car-
los to go forward alone.
He did so; and found himself in the presence of his judges–the Board, or
”Table of the Inquisition.” He bowed, though rather from the habit of courtesy,
than from any special respect to the tribunal, and stood silent.
Before any one addressed him, he had ample leisure for observation. The
room was large, lofty, and surrounded by pillars, between which there were
handsome hangings of gilt leather. At one end, the furthest from him, stood
a great crucifix, larger than life. Around the long table on the estrada six or
seven persons were seated. Of these, one alone was covered, he who sat nearest
the door by which Carlos had entered, and facing the crucifix. He knew that this
was Gonzales de Munebrãga, and the thought that he had once pleaded earnestly
for that man’s life, helped to give him boldness in his presence.
clxxii

At Munebrãga’s right hand sat a stern and stately man, whom Carlos,
though he had never seen him before, knew, from his dress and the position
he occupied, to be the prior of the Dominican convent adjoining the Triana. One
or two of the subordinate members of the Board he had met occasionally in other
days, and he had then considered them very far his own inferiors, both in edu-
cation and in social position.
At length Munebrãga, half turning, motioned him to approach the table.
He did so, and a person who sat at the opposite end, and appeared by his dress
to be a notary, made him lay his hand on a missal, and administered an oath to
him.
It bound him to speak the truth, and to keep everything secret which he
might see or hear; and he took it without hesitation. A bench at the Inquisitor’s
left hand was then pointed out to him, and he was desired to be seated.
A member of the Board, who bore the title of the Promoter-fiscal, conducted
the examination. After some merely formal questions, he asked him whether he
knew the cause of his present imprisonment? Carlos answered immediately, ”I
do.”
This was not the course usually taken by prisoners of the Holy Office. They
commonly denied all knowledge of any offence that could have induced ”their
reverences” to order their arrest With a slight elevation of the eyebrows, perhaps
expressive of surprise, his examiner continued, gently enough, ”Are you then
aware of having erred from the faith, and by word or deed offended your own
soul, and the consciences of good Christians? Speak boldly, my son; for to those
who acknowledge their faults the Holy Office is full of tenderness and mercy.”
”I have not erred, consciously, from the true faith, since I knew it.”
Here the Dominican prior interposed. ”You can ask for an advocate,” he
said; ”and as you are under twenty-five years of age, you can also claim the as-
sistance of a curator.[#] Furthermore, you can request a copy of the deposition
against you, in order to prepare your defence.”

[#] Guardian.

”Always supposing,” said Munebrãga himself, ”that he formally denies the crime
laid to his charge.–Do you?” he asked, turning to the prisoner.
”We understand you so to do,” said the prior, looking earnestly at Carlos.
”You plead not guilty?”
Carlos rose from his seat, and advanced a step or two nearer to the table
where sat the men who held his life in their hands. Addressing himself chiefly to
 clxxiii

the prior, he said, ”I know that by taking the course your reverence recommends
to me, as I believe out of kindness, I may defer my fate for a little while. I may
beat the air, fighting in the dark with witnesses whom you would refuse to name
to me, still more to confront with me. Or, I may make you wring out the truth
from me slowly, drop by drop. But what would that avail me? Neither for the
truth, nor yet for any falsehood I might be base enough to utter, would you loose
your hand from your prey. I prefer that straight road which is ever the shortest
way. I stand before your reverences this day a professed Lutheran, despairing of
mercy from man, but full of confidence in the mercy of God.”
A movement of surprise ran around the Board at these daring words. The
prior turned away from the prisoner with a pained, disconcerted look; but only to
meet a half-triumphant, half-reproachful glance from his superior, Munebrãga.
But Munebrãga was not displeased; far from it. It did not grieve him that the
prisoner, a mere youth, ”was throwing himself into the fire.” That was his own
concern. He was saving ”their reverences” a great deal of trouble. Thanks to
his hardihood, his folly, or his despair, a good piece of work was quickly and
easily accomplished. For it was the business of the Inquisitors first to convict;
retractations were an after consideration.
”Thou art a bold heretic, and fit for the fire,” he said. ”We know how to deal
with such.” And he placed his hand on the bell that was to signal the termination
of the interview.
But the prior, recovering from his astonishment, once more interposed.
”My lord and your reverence, be pleased to allow me a few minutes, in which I
may set plainly before the prisoner both the wonted mercy and lenity of the Holy
Office to the repentant, and the fatal consequences of obstinacy.”
Munebrãga acquiesced by a nod, then leant back carelessly in his seat; this
was not a part of the proceedings in which he felt much interest.
No one could doubt the sincerity with which the prior warned Carlos of
the doom that awaited the impenitent heretic. The horrors of the death of fire,
the deeper, darker horror of the fire that never dies, these were the theme of
his discourse. If not actually eloquent, it had at least the earnestness of intense
conviction. ”But to the penitent,” he added, and the hard face softened a little,
”God is ever merciful, and his Church is merciful too.”
Carlos listened in silence, his eyes bent on the ground. But when the Do-
minican concluded, he looked up again, glanced first at the great crucifix, then
fixed his eyes steadily on the prior’s face. ”I cannot deny my Lord,” he said. ”I
am in your hands, and you can do with me as you will. But God is mightier than
you.”
”Enough!” said Munebrãga, and he rang the hand-bell. After a very short
delay, the alcayde reappeared, and led Carlos back to his cell.
clxxiv

As soon as he was gone, Munebrãga turned to the prior. ”My lord,” he said,
”your wonted penetration is at fault for once. Is this the youth whom you assured
us a few months of solitary confinement would render pliant as a reed and plastic
as wax? Whereas we find him as bold a heretic as Losada, or D’Arellano, or that
imp of darkness, little Juliano.”
”Nay, my lord, I do not despair of him. Far from it. He is much less firm
than he seems. Give him time, with a due mixture of kindness and severity, and,
I trust in our Lord and St. Dominic, we will see him a hopeful penitent.”
”I am of your mind, reverend father,” said the Promoter-fiscal. ”It is probable
he confessed only to avoid the Question. Many of them fear it more than death.”
”You are right,” answered Munebrãga quickly.
The notary looked up from his papers. ”Please your lordships,” he said, ”I
think it is the sangre azul that makes him so bold. He is Alvarez de Meñaya.”
”Keep to thy quires and thine ink-horn, man of law,” interposed Munebrãga
angrily. ”Thy part is to write down what wiser men say, not to prate thyself.” It
was well known that the Inquisitor, far from boasting the sangre azul himself, had
not even what the Spaniards call ”good red blood” flowing in his veins; hence his
irritation at the notary’s speech.
There is often a great apparent similarity in the effects of quite opposite
causes. That which results from a degree of weakness of character may some-
times wear the aspect of transcendent courage. A bolder man than Don Carlos
Alvarez might, in his circumstances, have made a struggle for life. He might
have fought over every point as it arose; have availed himself of every loophole
for escape; have thrown upon his persecutors the onus of proving his crime. But
such a course would not have been possible to Carlos. As a running leap is far
more easy than a standing one, so to sensitive temperaments it is easier to rush
forward to meet pain or danger than to stand still and fight it off, knowing all the
time that it must come at last.
He would have been astonished had he guessed the impression made upon
his examiners. To himself it seemed that he had confessed his Lord in much
weakness. Still, he had confessed him. And shut out as he was from all ordinary
”means of grace,” the act of confession became a kind of sacrament to him. It
was a token and an evidence of Christ’s presence with him, and Christ’s power
working in him. He could say now, ”In the day that I called upon thee thou an-
sweredst me and strengthenedst me with strength in my soul.” And from that
hour he seemed to live in greater nearness to Christ, and more intimate commu-
nion with him, than he had ever done before.
It was well that he had strong consolation, for his need was great. Two
other examinations followed after a short interval; and in both of these Mune-
brãga took a far more active part than he had done in the first. The Inquisitors
 clxxv

were at that time extremely anxious to procure evidence upon which to condemn
Fray Constantino, who up to this point had steadily resisted every effort they had
made to induce him to criminate himself. They thought it probable that Don Car-
los Alvarez could assist them if he would, especially since there had been found
amongst his papers a highly laudatory letter of recommendation from the late
Canon Magistral.
Still, his assistance was needed even more in other matters. It is scarcely
necessary to say that Munebrãga, who forgot nothing, had not forgotten the mys-
terious appointment made with him, but never kept, by a cousin of the prisoner’s,
who was now stated to be hopelessly insane. What did that mean? Was the story
true; or were the family keeping back evidence which might compromise one or
more of its remaining members?
But Carlos was expected to resolve a yet graver question; or, at least, one
that touched him more nearly. His own arrest had been decreed in consequence
of two depositions against him. First, a member of Losada’s congregation had
named him as one of the habitual attendants; then a monk of San Isodro had
fatally compromised him under the torture. The monk’s testimony was clear
and explicit, and was afterwards confirmed by others. But the first witness had
deposed that two gentlemen of the name of Meñaya had been wont to attend
the conventicle. Who was the second? Hitherto this problem had baffled the
Inquisitors. Don Manuel Alvarez and his sons were noted for orthodoxy; and
the only other Meñaya known to them was the prisoner’s brother. But in his
favour there was every presumption, both from his character as a gallant officer
in the army of the most Catholic king, and from the fact of his voluntary return to
Seville; where, instead of shunning, he seemed to court observation, by throwing
himself continually in the Inquisitor’s way, and soliciting audience of him.
Still, of course, his guilt was possible. But, in the absence of anything suspi-
cious in his conduct, some clearer evidence than the vague deposition alluded to
was absolutely necessary, in order to warrant proceedings against him. Accord-
ing to the inquisitorial laws, what they styled ”full half proof” of a crime must be
obtained before ordering the arrest of the supposed criminal.
And the key to all these perplexities had now to be wrung from the unwill-
ing hands of Carlos. This needed ”half proof” could, and must, be furnished by
him. ”He must speak out,” said those stern, pitiless men, who held him in their
hands.
But here he was stronger than they. Neither arts, persuasions, threats, nor
promises, availed to unseal those pale, silent lips. Would torture do it? He was
told plainly, that unless he would answer every question put to him freely and
distinctly, he must undergo its worst horrors.
His heart throbbed wildly, then grew sick and faint. A dread far keener than
clxxvi

the dread of death prompted one short sharp struggle against the inevitable. He
said, ”It is against your own law to torture a confessed criminal for information
concerning others. For the law presumes that a man loves himself better than
his neighbour; and, therefore, that he who has informed against himself would
more readily inform against other heretics if he knew them.”
He was right. His early studies had enabled him to quote correctly one of
the rules laid down by the highest authority for the regulation of the inquisitorial
proceedings. But what mattered rules and canons to the members of a secret and
irresponsible tribunal?
Munebrãga covered his momentary embarrassment with a sneer. ”That
rule was framed for delinquents of another sort,” he said. ”You Lutheran heretics
have the command, ’Thou shall love thy neighbour as thyself,’ so deeply rooted
in your hearts, that the very flesh must needs be torn from your bones ere you
will inform against your brethren.[#] I overrule your objection as frivolous.”

[#] Words actually used by this monster.

And then a sentence, more dreaded than the terrible death-sentence itself, re-
ceived the formal sanction of the Board.
Once more alone in his cell, Carlos flung himself on his knees, and pressing
his burning brow against the cold damp stone, cried aloud in his anguish, ”Let
this cup–only this–pass from me!”
His was just the nature to which the thought of physical suffering is most
appalling. Keenly sensitive in mind and body, he shrank in unspeakable dread
from what stronger characters might brave or defy. His vivid imagination inten-
sified every pang he felt or feared. His mind was like a room hung round with
mirrors, in which every terrible thing, reflected a hundred times, became a hun-
dred terrors instead of one. What another would have endured once, he endured
over and over again in agonized anticipation.
At times the nervous horror grew absolutely insupportable. Tearfulness
and trembling took hold upon him. He felt ready to pray that God in his great
mercy would take away his life, and let the bearer of the dreaded summons find
him beyond all their malice.
One thought haunted him like a demon, whispering words of despair. It
had begun to haunt him from the hour when poor Maria Gonsalez told him she
had seen his brother. What if they dragged that loved name from his lips! What
if, in his weakness, he became Juan’s betrayer! Once it had been in his heart
to betray him from selfish love; perhaps in judgment for that sin he was now
 clxxvii

to betray him through sharp bodily anguish. Even if his will were kept firm all
through (which he scarcely dared to hope), would not reason give way, and wild
words be wrung from his lips that would too surely ruin all!
He tried to think of his Saviour’s death and passion; tried to pray for
strength and patience to drink of his cup. Sometimes he prayed that prayer with
strong crying and tears; sometimes with cold mute lips, too weary to cry any
longer. If he was heard and answered, he knew it not then.
Days of suspense wore on. They were only less dreary than the nights,
when sleep fled from his eyes, and horrible visions (which yet he knew were less
horrible than the truth) rose in quick succession before his mind.
One evening, seated on his bench in the twilight, he fell into an uneasy
slumber. The dark dread that never left him, mingling with the sunny gleam of
old memories, wove a vivid dream of Nuera, and of that summer morning when
the first great conflict of his life found an ending in the strong resolve, ”Juan,
brother! I will never wrong thee, so help me God!”
The grating of the key in the door and the sudden flash of the lamp aroused
him. He started to his feet at the alcayde’s entrance. This time no change of dress
was prescribed him. He knew his doom. He cried, but to no human ear. From the
very depths of his being the prayer arose, ”Father, save–sustain me; I am thine!”

XXXIII.
On the Other Side.

”Happy are they who learn at last,–

Though silent suffering teach
The secret of enduring strength,
And praise too deep for speech,–
Peace that no pressure from without,
No storm within can reach.

”There is no death for me to fear,

For Christ my Lord hath died;
There is no curse in all my pain,
For he was crucified;
clxxviii

And it is fellowship with him

That keeps me near his side.”–A. L. Waring

When the light of the next morning streamed in through the narrow grating

of his cell, Carlos was there once more, lying on his bed of rushes. But was it
indeed the next morning, or was it ten years, twenty years afterwards? Without
a painful effort of thought and memory, he himself could scarcely have told. That
last night was like a great gulf, fixed between his present and all his past. The
moment when he entered that torch-lit subterranean room seemed a sharp, black
dividing line, sundering his life into two halves. And the latter half seemed longer
than that which had gone before.
Nor could years of suffering have left a sadder impress on the young face,
out of which the look of youth had passed, apparently for ever. Brow and lips
were pale; but two crimson spots, still telling of feverish pain, burned on the hol-
low cheeks, while the large lustrous eyes beamed with even unnatural brilliance.
The poor woman, who was doing the work of God’s bright angels in that
dismal prison, came softly in. How she obtained entrance there Carlos did not
know, and was far too weak to ask, or even to wonder. But probably she was
sent by Benevidio, who knew that, in his present condition, some human help
was indispensable to the prisoner.
Maria Gonsalez was too well accustomed to scenes of horror to be over-
much surprised or shocked by what she saw. Silently, though with a heart full
of compassion, she rendered the few little services in her power. She placed the
broken frame in as easy a position as she could, and once and again she raised to
the parched lips the ”cup of cold water” so eagerly desired.
He roused himself to murmur a word of thanks; then, as she prepared to
leave him, his eyes followed her wistfully.
”Can I do anything more for you, señor?” she asked.
”Yes, mother. Tell me–have you spoken to my brother?”
”Ay de mi! no, señor,” said the poor woman, whose ability was not equal
to her good-will. ”I have tried, God wot; but I could not get from my master the
name of the place where he lives without making him suspect something, and
never since have I had the good fortune to see his face.”
”I know you have done–what you could. My message does not matter now.
Not so much. Still, best he should go. Tell him so, when you find him. But,
remember, tell him nought of this. You promise, mother! He must never know
it–never!”
She spoke a few words of pity and condolence.
”It was horrible!” he faltered, in faint, broken tones. ”Worst of all–the return
 clxxix

to life. For I thought all was over, and that I should awake face to face with Christ.
But–I cannot speak of it.”
There was a long silence; then his eye kindled, and a look of joy–ay, even
of triumph–flashed across the wasted, suffering face. ”But I have overcome! No;
not I. Christ has overcome in me, the weakest of his members. Now I am beyond
it–on the other side.”
To the poor tortured captive there had been given a foretaste, strange and
sweet, of what they feel who stand on the sea of glass, having the harps of God
in their hands. Men had done their worst–their very worst. He knew now all
”the dread mystery of pain;” all that flesh could accomplish in its fiercest conflict
with spirit. Yet not one word that could injure any one he loved had been wrung
from his lips.
All was over now. In that there was mercy–far more mercy than was shown
to others. He had been permitted to drain the cup at a single draught. Now he
could feel grateful to the physicians, who with truly kind cruelty (and not without
some risk to themselves) had prevented, in his case, that fiendish device, ”the
suspension of the torture.” Even according to the execrable laws of the Inquisition,
he had won his right to die in peace.
As time passed on, a blessed sense that he was now out of the hands of
man, and in those of God alone, sank like balm upon his weary spirit. Fear was
gone; grief had passed away; even memory had almost ceased to give him a pang.
For how could he long for the loved faces of former days, when day and night
Christ himself was near him? So strangely near, so intimately present, that he
sometimes thought that if, through some wonderful relenting of his persecutors,
Juan were permitted to come and stand beside him, that loved brother would still
seem further away, less real, than the unseen Friend who was keeping watch by
his couch. And even the bodily pain, that so seldom left him, was not hard to
bear, for it was only the touch of His finger.
He had passed into the clear air upon the mountain top, where the sun
shines ever, and the storm winds cannot come. Nothing hurt him; nothing dis-
turbed him now. He had visitors; for what had really placed him beyond the
reach of his enemies was, not unnaturally, supposed by them to have brought
him into a fitting state to receive their exhortations. So Inquisitors, monks, and
friars–”persons of good learning and honest repute”–came in due course to his
lonely cell, armed with persuasions and arguments, which were always weighted
with threats and promises.
Their voices seemed to reach him faintly, from a great distance. Into ”the
secret place of the Lord,” where he dwelt now, they could not enter. Threats and
promises fell powerless on his ear. What more could they do to him? As far as the
mere facts of the case were concerned, this security may have been misplaced–
clxxx

nay, it was misplaced; but it saved him from much suffering. And as for promises,
had they thrown open the door of his dungeon and bid him go forth free, only
that one intense longing to see his brother’s face would have nerved him to make
the effort.
Arguments he was glad to answer when permitted. It was a joy to speak
for his Lord, who had done, and was doing, such great things for him. As far as
he could, he made use of those Scripture words with which his memory was so
richly stored. But more than once it happened that he was forced to take up the
weapons which he had learned in the schools to use so skilfully. He tore sophisms
to pieces with the dexterity of one who knew how they were constructed, and
astonished the students of Aristotle and Thomas Aquinas by vanquishing them
on their own ground.
Reproach and insult he met with a fearless meekness that nothing could
ruffle. Why should he feel anger? Rather did he pity those who stood without in
the darkness, not seeing the Face he saw, not hearing the Voice he heard. Usually,
however, those who visited him yielded to the spell of his own sweet and perfect
courtesy, and were kinder than they intended to be to the ”professed impenitent
heretic.”
His heart, now ”at leisure from itself,” was filled with sympathy for his im-
prisoned brethren and sisters. But, except to Maria Gonsalez, he dared not speak
of them, lest the simplest remark or question might give rise to some new suspi-
cion, or supply some link, hitherto missing, in the chain of evidence against them.
But those who came to visit him sometimes gave him unasked intelligence about
them. He could not, however, rely upon the truth of what reached him in this
way. He was told that Losada had retracted; he did not believe it. Equally did he
disbelieve a similar story of Don Juan Ponce de Leon, in which, unhappily, there
was some truth. The constancy of that gentle, generous-hearted nobleman had
yielded under torture and cruel imprisonment, and concessions had been wrung
from him that dimmed the brightness of his martyr crown. On the other hand,
the waverer, Garçias Ariâs, known as the ”White Doctor,” had come forward with
a hardihood truly marvellous, and not only confessed his own faith, but mocked
and defied the Inquisitors.
Of Fray Constantino, the most contradictory stories were told him. At one
time he was assured that the great preacher had not only admitted his own guilt,
but also, on the rack, had informed against his brethren. Again he was told, and
this time with truth, that the Emperor’s former chaplain and favourite had been
spared the horrors of the Question, but that the eagerly desired evidence against
him had been obtained by accident. A lady of rank, one of his chief friends,
was amongst the prisoners; and the Inquisitors sent an Alguazil to her house
to demand possession of her jewels. Her son, without waiting to ascertain the
 clxxxi

precise object of the officer’s visit, surrendered to him in a panic some books
which Fray Constantino had given his mother to conceal. Amongst them was
a volume in his own handwriting, containing the most explicit avowal of the
principles of the Reformation. On this being shown to the prisoner, he struggled
no longer. ”You have there a full and candid confession of my belief,” he said. And
he was now in one of the dark and loathsome subterranean cells of the Triana.
Amongst those who most frequently visited Carlos was the prior of the
Dominican convent. This man seemed to take a peculiar interest in the young
heretic’s fate. He was a good specimen of a character oftener talked about than
met with in real life,–the genuine fanatic. When he threatened Carlos, as he
spared not to do, with the fire that is never quenched, at least he believed with all
his heart that he was in danger of it. Carlos soon perceived this, and accepting his
honest intention to benefit him, came to regard him with a kind of friendliness.
Besides, the prior listened to what he said with more attention than did most of
the others, and even in the prison of the Inquisition a man likes to be listened to,
especially when his opportunities of speaking are few and brief.
Many weeks passed by, and still Carlos lay on his mat, in weakness and
suffering of body, though in calm gladness of spirit. Surgical and medical aid had
been afforded him in due course. And it was not the fault of either surgeon or
physician that he did not recover. They could stanch wounds and set dislocated
joints, but when the springs of life were sapped, how could they renew them?
How could they quicken the feeble pulse, or send back life and energy into the
broken, exhausted frame? At this time Carlos himself felt certain–even more
certain than did his physician–that never again would his footsteps pass the limits
of that narrow cell.
Once, indeed, there came to him a brief and fleeting pang of regret. It was
in the spring-time; everywhere else so bright and fair, but making little change
in those gloomy cells. Maria Gonsalez now sometimes obtained access to him,
partly through Benevidio’s increased inattention to all his duties, partly because,
any attempt at escape on the part of the captive being obviously out of the ques-
tion, he was somewhat less jealously watched. And more than once the gaoler’s
little daughter stole in timidly beside her nurse, bearing some trifling gift for the
sick prisoner. To Carlos these visits came like sunbeams; and in a very short time
he succeeded in establishing quite an intimate friendship with the child.
One morning she entered his cell with Maria, carrying a basket, from which
she produced, with shy pleasure, a few golden oranges. ”Look, señor,” she said,
”they are good to eat now, for the blossoms are out.[#] I gathered some to show
you;” and filling both her hands with the luscious wealth of the orange flowers,
she flung them carelessly down on the mat beside him. In her eyes they were of
no value compared with the fruit.
clxxxii

[#] The people of Seville do not think the oranges fit to eat until the new blossoms come out in
spring.

With Carlos it was far otherwise. The rich perfume that filled the cell filled his
heart also with sweet sad dreams, which lasted long after his kindly visitors had
left him. The orange-trees had just been in flower last spring when all God’s free
earth and sky were shut out from his sight for ever. Only a year ago! What a
long, long year it seemed! And only one year further back he was walking in
the orange gardens with Doña Beatriz, in all the delicious intoxication of his first
and last dream of youthful love. ”Better here than there, better now than then,”
he murmured, though the tears gathered in his eyes. ”But oh, for one hour of the
old free life, one look at orange-trees in flower, or blue skies, or the grassy slopes
and cork-trees of Nuera! Or”–and more painfully intense the yearning grew–
”one familiar face, belonging to the past, to show me it was not all a dream, as I
am sometimes tempted to think it. Thine, Ruy, if it might be.–O Ruy, Ruy!–But,
thank God, I have not betrayed thee!”
In the afternoon of that day visitors were announced. Carlos was not sur-
prised to see the stern narrow face and white hair of the Dominican prior. But
he was a little surprised to observe that the person who followed him wore the
gray cowl of St. Francis. The prior merely bestowed the customary salutation
upon him, and then, stepping aside, allowed his companion to approach.
But as soon as Carlos saw his face, he raised himself eagerly, and stretching
out both his hands, grasped those of the Franciscan. ”Dear Fray Sebastian!” he
cried; ”my good, kind tutor!”
”My lord the prior has been graciously pleased to allow me to visit your
Excellency.”
”It is truly kind of you, my lord. I thank you heartily,” said Carlos, frankly
and promptly turning towards the Dominican, who looked at him with somewhat
the air of one who is trying to be stern with a child.
”I have ventured to allow you this indulgence,” he said, ”in the hope that
the counsels of one whom you hold in honour may lead you to repentance.”
Carlos turned once more to Fray Sebastian, whose hand he still held. ”It is a
great joy to see you,” he said. ”Only to-day I had been longing for a familiar face.
And you are changed never a whit since you used to teach me my humanities.
How have you come hither? Where have you been all these years?”
Poor Fray Sebastian vainly tried to frame an answer to these simple ques-
tions. He had come to that prison straight from Munebrãga’s splendid patio,
where, amidst the gleam of azulejos and of many-coloured marbles, the scent of
rare exotics and the music of rippling fountains, he had partaken of a sumptu-
 clxxxiii

ous mid-day repast. In this dark foul dungeon there was nothing to please the
senses, not even God’s free air and light. Everything on which his eye rested was
coarse, painful, loathsome. By the prisoner’s side lay the remains of a meal, in
great contrast to his. And the sleeve, fallen back from the hand that held his own,
showed deep scars on the wrist. He knew whence they were. Yet the face that
was looking in his, with kindling eyes, and a smile on the parted lips, might have
been the face of the boy Carlos, when he praised him for a successful task, only
for the pain in it, and, far deeper than pain, a look of assured peace that boyhood
could scarcely know.
Repressing a choking sensation, he faltered, ”Señor Don Carlos, it grieves
me to the heart to see you here.”
”Do not grieve for me, dear Fray Sebastian; for I tell you truly, I have never
known such happy hours as since I came here. At first, indeed, I suffered; there
was storm and darkness. But then”–here for a moment his voice failed, and his
flushed cheek and quivering lip betrayed the anguish a too hasty movement cost
the broken frame. But, recovering himself quickly, he went on: ”Then He arose
and rebuked the wind and the sea; and there was a great calm. That calm lasts
still. And oftentimes this narrow room seems to me the house of God, the very
gate of heaven. Moreover,” he added, with a smile of strange brightness, ”there
is heaven itself beyond.”
”But, señor and your Excellency, consider the disgrace and sorrow of your
noble family–that is, I mean”–here the speaker paused in perplexity, and met the
keen eye of the prior, fixed somewhat scornfully, as he thought, upon him. He
was quite conscious that the Dominican was thinking him incapable, and incom-
petent to the task he had so earnestly solicited. He had sedulously prepared him-
self for this important interview, had gone through it in imagination beforehand,
laying up in his memory several convincing and most pertinent exhortations,
which could not fail to benefit his old pupil. But these were of no avail now; in
fact, they all vanished from his recollection. He had just begun something rather
vague and incoherent about Holy Church, when the prior broke in.
”Honoured brother,” he said, addressing with scrupulous politeness the
member of a rival fraternity, ”the prisoner may be more willing to listen to your
pious exhortations, and you may have more freedom in addressing him, if you
are left for a brief space alone together. Therefore, though it is scarcely regular,
I will visit a prisoner in a neighbouring apartment, and return hither for you in
due time.”
Fray Sebastian thanked him, and he withdrew, saying as he did so, ”It is not
necessary for me to remind my reverend brother that conversation upon worldly
matters is strictly forbidden in the Holy House.”
Whether the prior visited the other prisoner or no, it is not for us to inquire;
clxxxiv

but if he did, his visit was a short one; for it is certain that for some time he paced
the gloomy corridor with troubled footsteps. He was thinking of a woman’s face,
a fair young face, to which that of Don Carlos Alvarez wore a startling likeness.
”Too harsh, needlessly harsh,” he murmured; ”for, after all, she was no heretic.
But which of us is always in the right? Ave Maria Sanctissima, ora pro me! But
if I can, I would fain make some reparation–to him. If ever there was a true and
sincere penitent, he is one.”
After a little further delay, he summoned Fray Sebastian by a peremptory
knock at the inner door, the outer one of course remaining open. The Franciscan
came, his broad, good-humoured face bathed in tears, which he scarcely made an
effort to conceal.
The prior glanced at him for a moment, then signed to Herrera, who was
waiting in the gallery, to come and make the door fast. They walked on together
in silence, until at length Fray Sebastian said, in a trembling voice, ”My lord, you
are very powerful here; can you do nothing for him?”
”I have done much. At my intercession he had nine months of solitude, in
which to recollect himself and ponder his situation, ere he was called on to make
answer at all. Judge my amazement when, instead of entering upon his defence,
or calling witnesses to his character, he at once confessed all. Judge my greater
amazement at his continued obstinacy since. When a man has broken a giant
oak in two, he may feel some surprise at being baffled by a sapling.”
”He will not relent,” said Fray Sebastian, hardly restraining his sobs. ”He
will die.”
”I see one chance to save him,” returned the prior; ”but it is a hazardous
experiment. The consent of the Supreme Council is necessary, as well as that of
my Lord Vice-Inquisitor, and neither may be very easy to obtain.”
”To save his body or his soul?” Fray Sebastian asked anxiously.
”Both, if it succeeds. But I can say no more,” he added rather haughtily; ”for
my plan is bound up with a secret, of which few living men, save myself, are in
possession.”

XXXIV.
Fray Sebastian’s Trouble.
 clxxxv

”Now, with fainting frame,

With soul just lingering on the flight begun,
To bind for thee its last dim thoughts in one,
I bless thee. Peace be on thy noble head.
Years of bright fame, when I am with the dead!
I bid this prayer survive me, and retain
Its power again to bless thee, and again.
Thou hast been gathered into my dark fate
Too much; too long for my sake desolate
Hath been thine exiled youth; but now take back
From dying hands thy freedom.”–Hemans

It was late in August. All day long the sky had been molten fire, and the earth

brass. Every one had dozed away the sultry noontide hours in the coolest recesses
of dwellings made to exclude heat, as ours to exclude cold. But when at last the
sun sank in flame beneath the horizon, people began to creep out languidly to
woo the refreshment of the evening breeze.
The beautiful gardens of the Triana were still deserted, save by two per-
sons. One of these, a young lad–we beg pardon, a young gentleman–of fifteen or
sixteen, sat, or rather reclined, by the river-side, eating slices from an enormous
melon, which he cut with a small silver-hilted dagger. A plumed cap, and a gay
velvet jerkin lined with satin, had been thrown aside for coolness’ sake, and lay
near him on the ground; so that his present dress consisted merely of a mass of
the finest white holland, delicately starched and frilled, velvet hosen, long silk
stockings, and fashionable square-toed shoes. Curls of scented hair were thrown
back from a face beautiful as that of a girl, but bold and insolent in its expression
as that of a spoiled and mischievous boy.
The other person was seated in the arbour mentioned once before, with a
book in his hand, of which, however, he did not in the course of an hour turn
over a single leaf. A look of chronic discontent and dejection had replaced the
good-humoured smiles of Fray Sebastian Gomez. Everything was wrong with the
poor Franciscan now. Even the delicacies of his patron’s table ceased to please
him; and he, in his turn, was fast ceasing to please his patron. How could it be
otherwise, when he had lost not only his happy art of indirect ingenious flattery,
but his power to be commonly agreeable or amusing? No more poems–not so
much as the briefest sonnet–on the suppression of heresy were to be had from
him; and he was fast becoming incapable of turning a jest or telling a story.
It is said that idiots often manifest peculiar pain and terror at the sound
of music, because it awakens within them faint stirrings of that higher life from
clxxxvi

which God’s mysterious dispensation has shut them out. And it is true that the
first stirrings of higher life usually come to all of us with pain and terror. More-
over, if we do not crush them out, but cherish and foster them, they are very apt
to take away the brightness and pleasantness of the old lower life altogether, and
to make it seem worthless and distasteful.
A new and higher life had begun for Fray Sebastian. It was not his con-
science that was quickened, only his heart. Hitherto he had chiefly cared for
himself. He was a good-natured man, in the ordinary acceptation of the term;
yet no sympathy for others had ever spoiled his appetite or hindered his diges-
tion. But for the past three months he had been feeling as he had not felt since
he clung weeping to the mother who left him in the parlour of the Franciscan
convent–a child of eight years old. The patient suffering face of the young pris-
oner in the Triana had laid upon him a spell that he could not break.
To say that he would have done anything in his power to save Don Carlos,
is to say little. Willingly would he have lived for a month on black bread and
brackish water, if that could have even mitigated his fate. But the very intensity
of his desire to help him was fast making him incapable of rendering him the
smallest service. Munebrãga’s flatterer and favourite might possibly, by dint of
the utmost self-possession and the most adroit management, have accomplished
some little good. But Fray Sebastian was now consciously forfeiting even the
miserable fragment of power that had once been his. He thought himself like
the salt that had lost its savour, and was fit neither for the land nor yet for the
dunghill.
Absorbed in his mournful reflections, he continued unconscious of the
presence of such an important personage as Don Alonzo de Munebrãga, the Lord
Vice-Inquisitor’s favourite page. At length, however, he was made aware of the
fact by a loud angry shout, ”Off with you, varlets, scum of the people! How dare
you put your accursed fishing-smack to shore in my lord’s garden, and under his
very eyes?”
Fray Sebastian looked up, and saw no fishing-boat, but a decent covered
barge, from which, in spite of the page’s remonstrance, two persons were land-
ing: an elderly female clad in deep mourning, and her attendant, apparently a
tradesman’s apprentice, or serving-man.
Fray Sebastian knew well how many distracted petitioners daily sought ac-
cess to Munebrãga, to plead (alas, how vainly!) for the lives of parents, husbands,
sons, or daughters. This was doubtless one of them. He heard her plead, ”For the
love of Heaven, dear young gentleman, hinder me not. Have you a mother? My
only son lies–”
”Out upon thee, woman!” interrupted the page; ”and the foul fiend take
thee and thy only son together.”
 clxxxvii

”Hush, Don Alonzo!” Fray Sebastian interposed, coming forward towards

the spot; and perhaps for the first time in his life there was something like dig-
nity in his tone and manner. ”You must be aware, señora,” he said, turning to
the woman, ”that the right of using this landing-place is restricted to my lord’s
household. You will be admitted at the gate of the Triana, if you present yourself
at a proper hour.”
”Alas! good father, once and again have I sought admission to my lord’s
presence. I am the unhappy mother of Luis D’Abrego, he who used to paint and
illuminate the church missals so beautifully. More than a year agone they tore
him from me, and carried him away to yonder tower, and since then, so help me
the good God, never a word of him have I heard. Whether he is living or dead,
this day I know not.”
”Oh, a Lutheran dog! Serve him right,” cried the page. ”I hope they have
put him on the pulley.”
Fray Sebastian turned suddenly, and dealt the lad a stinging blow on the
side of his face. To the latest hour of his life this act of passion remained incom-
prehensible to himself. He could only ascribe it to the direct agency of the evil
one. ”I was tempted by the Devil,” he would say with a sigh. ”Vade retro me,
Satana.”
Crimson to the roots of his perfumed hair, the boy sought his dagger. ”Vile
caitiff! beggarly trencher-scraping Franciscan!” he cried, ”you shall repent of
this.”
But apparently changing his mind the next moment, he allowed the dagger
to drop from his hand, and snatching up his jerkin, ran at full speed towards the
house.
Fray Sebastian crossed himself, and gazed after him bewildered; his un-
wonted passion dying as suddenly as it had flamed up, and giving place to fear.
Meanwhile the mother of Abrego, to whom it did not occur that the buffet
bestowed on the page could have any serious consequences, resumed her plead-
ings. ”Your reverence seems to have a heart that can feel for the unhappy,” she
said. ”For Heaven’s sake refuse not the prayer of the most unhappy woman in
the world. Only let me see his lordship–let me throw myself at his feet and tell
him the whole truth. My poor lad had nothing at all to do with the Lutherans;
he was a good, true Christian, and an old one, like all his family.”
”Nay, nay, my good woman; I fear I can do nothing to help you. And I
entreat of you to leave this place, else some of my lord’s household are sure to
come and compel you. Ay, there they are.”
It was true enough. Don Alonzo, as he ran through the porch, shouted
to the numerous idle attendants who were lounging about, and some of them
immediately rushed out into the garden.
clxxxviii

In justice to Fray Sebastian, it must be recorded, that before he consulted

for his personal safety, he led the poor woman back to the barge, and saw her
depart in it. Then he made good his own retreat, going straight to the lodging of
Don Juan Alvarez.
He found Juan lying asleep on a settle. The day was hot; he had nothing
to do; and, moreover, the fiery energy of his southern blood was dashed by the
southern taint of occasional torpor. Starting up suddenly, and seeing Fray Sebas-
tian standing before him with a look of terror, he asked in alarm, ”Any tidings,
Fray? Speak–tell me quickly.”
”None, Señor Don Juan. But I must leave this place at once.” And the friar
briefly narrated the scene that had just taken place, adding mournfully, ”Ay de
mi! I cannot tell what came over me–me, the mildest-tempered man in all the
Spains!”
”And what of all that?” asked Juan rather contemptuously. ”I see nothing
to regret, save that you did not give the insolent lad what he deserved, a sound
beating.”
”But, Señor Don Juan, you don’t understand,” gasped the poor friar. ”I
must fly immediately. If I stay here over to-night I shall find myself before the
morning–there.” And with a significant gesture he pointed to the grim fortress
that loomed above them.
”Nonsense. They cannot suspect a man of heresy, even de levi,[#] for boxing
the ear of an impudent serving-lad.”

[#] Lightly.

”Ay, and can they not, your worship? Do you not know that the gardener of the
Triana has lain for many a weary month in one of those dismal cells; and all for
the grave offence of snatching a reed out of the hand of one of my lord’s lackeys
so roughly as to make it bleed?”[#]

[#] A fact.

”Truly! Now are things come to a strange pass in our free and royal land of
Spain! A beggarly upstart, such as this Munebrãga, who could not, to save him-
self from the rack, tell you the name of his own great-grandfather, drags the sons
and brothers–ay, and God help us! the wives and daughters–of our knights and
 clxxxix

nobles to the dungeon and the stake before our eyes. And it is not enough for him
to set his own heel on our necks. His minions–his very grooms and pages–must
lord it over us, and woe to him who dares to chastise their insolence. Nathless, I
would feel it a comfort to make every bone in that urchin’s body ache soundly. I
have a mind–but this is folly. I believe you are right, Fray. You should go.”
”Moreover,” said the friar mournfully, ”I am doing no good here.”
”No one can do good now,” returned Juan, in a tone of deep dejection. ”And
to-day the last blow has fallen. The poor woman who showed him kindness, and
sometimes told us how he fared, is herself a prisoner.”
”What! she has been discovered?”
”Even so: and with those fiends mercy is the greatest of all crimes. The
child met me to-day (whether by accident or design, I know not), and told me,
weeping bitterly.”
”God help her!”
”Some would gladly endure her punishment if they might commit her
crime,” said Don Juan. There was a pause; then he resumed, ”I had been about to
ask you to apply once more to the prior.”
Fray Sebastian shook his head. ”That were of no use,” he said; ”for it is cer-
tain that my lord the Vice-Inquisitor and the prior have had a misunderstanding
about the matter. And the prior, so far from obtaining permission to deal with
him as he desired, is not even allowed to see him now.”
”And yourself?–whither do you mean to go?” asked Juan, rather abruptly.
”In sooth, I know not, señor. I have had no time to think. But go I must.”
”I will tell you what to do. Go to Nuera. There for the present you will be
safe. And if any man inquire your business, you have a fair and ready answer.
I send you to look after my affairs. Stay; I will write by you to Dolores. Poor,
true-hearted Dolores!” Don Juan seemed to fall into a reverie, so long did he sit
motionless, his face shaded by his hand.
His mournful air, his unwonted listlessness, his attenuated frame–all struck
Fray Sebastian painfully. After musing a while in silence, he said at last, very
suddenly, ”Señor Don Juan!”
Juan looked up.
”Have you ever thought since on the message he sent you by me?”
Don Juan looked as though that question were worse than needless. Was
not every word of his brother’s message burned into his heart? This it was: ”My
Ruy, thou hast done all for me that the best of brothers could. Leave me now to
God, unto whom I am going quickly, and in peace. Quit the country as soon as
thou canst; and God’s best blessings surround thy path and guard thee evermore.”
One fact Carlos had most earnestly entreated Fray Sebastian to withhold
from his brother. Juan must never know that he had endured the horrors of the
cxc

Question. The monk would have promised almost anything that could bring a
glow of pleasure to that pale, patient face. And he had kept his promise, though
at the expense of a few falsehoods, that did not greatly embarrass his conscience.
He had conveyed the impression to Don Juan that it was merely from the effects
of his long and cruel imprisonment that his brother was sinking into the only
refuge that remained to him–a quiet grave.
After a pause, he resumed, looking earnestly at Juan–”He wished you to
go.”
”Do you not know that next month they say there will be–an Auto?”
”Yes; but it is not likely–”
They gazed at each other in silence, neither saying what was not likely.
”Any horror is possible,” said Juan at last. ”But no more of this. Until after
the Auto, with its chances of some termination to this dreadful suspense, I stir not
from Seville. Now, we must think for you. I know where to find a boat, the owner
of which will take you some miles on your way up the river to-night. Then you
can hire a horse.”
Fray Sebastian groaned. Neither the journey itself, its cause, nor its manner
were anything but disagreeable to the poor friar. But there was no help for him.
Juan gave him some further directions about his way; then set food and wine
before him.
”Eat and drink,” he said. ”Meanwhile I will secure the boat. When I return,
I can write to Dolores.”
All was done as he planned; and ere the morning broke, Fray Sebastian was
far on his way to Nuera, with the letter to Dolores stitched into the lining of his
doublet.

XXXV.
The Eve of the Auto.

”It is good for a man that he bear the yoke in his youth
He sitteth alone and keepeth silence, because he hath borne it upon
him.
He putteth his mouth in the dust, if so be there may be
hope.”–Lamentations iii, 27-29
 cxci

On the 21st of September 1559, all Seville wore a festive appearance. The shops

were closed, and the streets were filled with idle loiterers in their gay holiday ap-
parel. For it was the eve of the great Auto, and the preliminary ceremonies were
going forward amidst the admiration of gazing thousands. Two stately scaffolds,
in the form of an amphitheatre, had been erected in the great square of the city,
then called the Square of St. Francis; and thither, when the work was completed,
flags and crosses were borne in solemn procession, with music and singing.
But a still more significant ceremonial was enacted in another place. Out-
side the walls, on the Prado San Sebastian, stood the ghastly Quemadero–the
great altar upon which, for generations, men had offered human sacrifices to
the God of peace and love. Thither came long files of barefooted friars, carrying
bushes and faggots, which they laid in order on the place of death, while, in sweet
yet solemn tones, they chanted the ”Miserere” and ”De Profundis.”
Very close together on those festive days were ”strong light and deep
shadow.” But our way leads us, for the present, into the light. Turning away
from the Square of St. Francis, and the Prado San Sebastian, we enter a cool up-
per room in the stately mansion of Don Garçia Ramirez. There, in the midst of
gold and gems, and of silk and lace, Doña Inez is standing, busily engaged in the
task of selecting the fairest treasures of her wardrobe to grace the grand festival
of the following day. Doña Beatriz de Lavella, and the young waiting-woman
who had been employed in the vain though generous effort to save Don Carlos,
are both aiding her in the choice.
”Please your ladyship,” said the girl, ”I should recommend rose colour for
the basquina. Then, with those beautiful pearls, my lord’s late gift, my lady will
be as fine as a duchess; of whom, I hear, many will be there.–But what will Señora
Doña Beatriz please to wear?”
”I do not intend to go, Juanita,” said Doña Beatriz, with a little embarrass-
ment.
”Not intend to go!” cried the girl, crossing herself in surprise. ”Not go to
see the grandest sight there has been in Seville for many a year! Worth a hundred
bull-feasts! Ay de mi! what a pity!”
”Juanita,” interposed her mistress, ”I think I hear the señorita’s voice in the
garden. It is far too hot for her to be out of doors. Oblige me by bringing her in
at once.”
As soon as the attendant was gone, Doña Inez turned to her cousin. ”It is
really most unreasonable of Don Juan,” she said, ”to keep you shut up here, whilst
all Seville is making holiday.”
”I am glad–I have no heart to go forth,” said Doña Beatriz, with a quivering
lip.
cxcii

”Nor have I too much, for that matter. My poor brother is so weak and ill
to-day, it grieves me to the heart. Moreover, he is still so thoughtless about his
poor soul. That is the worst of all. I never cease praying Our Lady to bring him to
a better mind. If he would only consent to see a priest; but he was ever obstinate.
And if I urge the point too strongly, he will think I suppose him dying.”
”I thought his health had improved since you had him brought over here.”
”Certainly he is happier here than he was in his father’s house. But of late
he seems to me to be sinking, and that quickly. And now, the Auto–”
”What of that?” asked Doña Beatriz, with a quick look, half suspicious and
half frightened.
Doña Inez closed the door carefully, and drew nearer to her cousin. ”They
say she will be amongst the relaxed,”[#] she whispered.

[#] Those delivered over to the secular arm–that is, to death.

”Does he know it?” asked Beatriz.

”I fear he suspects something; and what to tell him, or not to tell him, I know
not–Our Lady help me! Ay de mi! ’Tis a horrible business from beginning to end.
And the last thing–the arrest of the sister, Doña Juana! A duke’s daughter–a
noble’s bride. But–best be silent.

’Con el re e la Inquisition,
Chiton! Chiton!’”[#]

[#]| ”With the King or the Inquisition,

Hush! Hush!”–A Spanish proverb.

Thus, only in a few hurried words, spoken with ’bated breath, did Doña Inez
venture to allude to the darkest and saddest of the horrible tragedies in that time
of horrors. Nor shall we do more.
”Still, you know, amiga mia,” she continued, ”one must do like one’s neigh-
bours. It would be so ridiculous to look gloomy on a festival day. Besides, every
one would talk.”
”That is why I say I am glad Don Juan made it his prayer to me that I would
not go. For not to look sorrowful, when thy father, Don Manuel, and my aunt,
Doña Katarina, are both doing their utmost to drive me out of my senses, would
 cxciii

be past my power.”
”Have they been urging the suit of Señor Luis upon thee again? My poor
Beatriz, I am truly sorrow for thee,” said Doña Inez, with genuine sympathy.
”Urging it again!” Beatriz repeated with flashing eyes. ”Nay; but they have
never ceased to urge it. And they spare not to say such wicked, cruel words. They
tell me Don Juan is dishonoured by his brother’s crime. Dishonoured, forsooth!
Think of dishonour touching him! After the day of St. Quentin, the Duke of
Savoy was not of that mind, nor our Catholic King himself. And they have the
audacity to say that I can easily get absolved of my troth to him. Absolved of a
solemn promise made in the sight of God and of Our Lady, and all the holy Saints!
If that be not heresy, as bad as–”
”Hush!” interrupted Doña Inez. ”These are dangerous subjects. Moreover,
I hear some one knocking at the door.”
It proved to be a page bearing a message.
”If it please Doña Beatriz de Lavella, Don Juan Alvarez de Santillanos y
Meñaya kisses the señora’s feet, and most humbly desires the favour of an audi-
ence.”
”I go,” said Beatriz.
”Request Señor Don Juan to have the goodness to untire himself a little,
and bring his Excellency fruit and wine,” added Doña Inez. ”My cousin,” she said,
turning to Beatriz as soon as the page left the room, ”do you not know your
cheeks are all aflame? Don Juan will think we have quarrelled. Rest you here a
minute, and let me bathe them for you with this water of orange-flowers.”
Beatriz submitted, though reluctantly, to her cousin’s good offices. While
she performed them she whispered, ”And be not so downcast, amiga mia. There
is a remedy for most troubles. And as for yours, I see not why Don Juan himself
should not save you out of them once for all.” She added, in a whisper, two or
three words that more than undid all the benefit which the cheeks of Beatriz
might otherwise have derived from the application of the fragrant water.
”No use,” was the agitated reply. ”Even were it possible, they would not
permit it.”
”You can come to visit me. Then trust me to manage the rest. The truth is,
amiga mia,” Doña Inez continued hurriedly, as she smoothed her cousin’s dark
glossy hair, ”what between sickness, and quarrelling, and the Faith, and heresy,
and prisons, there is so much trouble in the world that no one can help, it seems
a pity not to help all one can. So you may tell Don Juan that if Doña Inez can do
him a good turn she will not be found wanting. There, I despair of your cheeks.
Yet I must allow that their crimson becomes you well. But you would rather hear
that from Don Juan’s lips than from mine. Go to him, my cousin.” And with a
parting kiss Beatriz was dismissed.
cxciv

But if she expected any flattery that day from the lips of Don Juan, she was
disappointed. His heart was far too sorrowful. He had merely come to tell his
betrothed what he intended to do on the morrow–that dreadful morrow! ”I have
secured a station,” he said, ”from whence I can watch the whole procession, as
it issues from the gate of the Triana. If he is there, I shall dare everything for a
last look and word. And a desperate man is seldom baffled. If even his dust is
there, I shall stand beside it till all is over. If not–” Here he broke off, leaving his
sentence unfinished, as if in that case it did not matter what he did.
Just then Doña Inez entered. After customary salutations, she said, ”I have
a request to make of you, my cousin, on the part of my brother, Don Gonsalvo.
He desires to see you for a few moments.”
”Señora my cousin, I am very much at your service, and at his.”
Juan was accordingly conducted to the upper room where Gonsalvo lay.
And at the special request of the sick man, they were left alone together.
He stretched out a wasted hand to his cousin, who took it in silence, but
with a look of compassion. For it needed only a glance at his face to show that
death was there.
”I should be glad to think you forgave me,” he said.
”I do forgive you,” Juan answered. ”You intended no evil.”
”Will you, then, do me a great kindness? It is the last I shall ask. Tell me
the names of any of the–the victims that have come to your knowledge.”
”It is only through rumour one can hear these things. Not yet have I suc-
ceeded in discovering whether the name dearest to me is amongst them.”
”Tell me–has rumour named in your hearing–Doña Maria de Xeres y Bo-
horques?”
Juan was still ignorant of the secret which Doña Inez had but recently con-
fided to his betrothed. He therefore answered, without hesitation, though in a
low, sad tone, ”Yes; they say she is to die to-morrow.”
Don Gonsalvo flung his hand across his face, and there was a great silence.
Which the awed and wondering Juan broke at last. Guessing at the truth,
he said, ”It may be I have done wrong to tell you.”
”No; you have done right. I knew it ere you told me. It is well–for her.”
”A brave word, bravely spoken.”
”Nigh upon eighteen months–long slow months of grief and pain. All
ended now. To-morrow night she will see the glory of God.”
There was another long pause. At last Juan said,–
”Perhaps, if you could, you would gladly share her fate?”
Gonsalvo half raised himself, and a flush overspread the wan face that al-
ready wore the ashy hue of approaching death. ”Share that fate!” he cried, with
an eagerness contrasting strangely with his former slow and measured utterance.
 cxcv

”Change with them? Ask the beggar, who sits all day at the King’s gate, waiting
for his dole of crumbs, would he gladly change with the King’s children, when
he sees the golden gate flung open before them, and watches them pass in robed
and crowned, to the presence-chamber of the King himself.”
”Your faith is greater than mine,” said Juan in surprise.
”In one way, yes,” replied Gonsalvo, sinking back, and resuming his low,
quiet tone. ”For the beggar dares to hope that the King has looked with pity even
on him.”
”You do well to hope in the mercy of God.”
”Cousin, do you know what my life has been?”
”I think I do.”
”I am past disguise now. Standing on the brink of the grave, I dare speak
the truth, though it be to my own shame. There was no evil, no sin–stay, I will
sum up all in one word. One pure, blameless life–a man’s life, too–I have watched
from day to day, from childhood to manhood. All that your brother Don Carlos
was, I was not; all he was not, I was.”
”Yet you once thought that life incomplete, unmanly,” said Juan, remem-
bering the taunts that in past days had so often aroused his wrath.
”I was a fool. It is just retribution that I–I who called him coward–should
see him march in there triumphant, with the palm of victory in his hand. But let
me end; for I think it is the last time I shall speak of myself in any human ear. I
sowed to the flesh, and of the flesh I have reaped–corruption. It is an awful word,
Don Juan. All the life in me turned to death; all the good in me (what God meant
for good, such as force, fire, passion) turned to evil. What availed it me that I
loved a star in heaven–a bright, lonely, distant star–while I was earthy, of the
earth? Because I could not (and thank God for that!) pluck down my star from
the sky and hold it in my hand, even that love became corruption too. I fulfilled
my course, the earthly grew sensual, the sensual grew devilish. And then God
smote me, though not then for the first time. The stroke of his hand was heavy.
My heart was crushed, my frame left powerless.” He paused for a while, then
slowly resumed. ”The stroke of his hand, your brother’s words, your brother’s
book–by these he taught me. There is deliverance even from the bondage of
corruption, through him who came to call not the righteous, but sinners. One
day–and that soon–I, even I, shall kneel at his feet, and thank him for saving the
lost. And then I shall see my star, shining far above me in his glorious heaven,
and be content and glad.”
”God has been very gracious to you, my cousin,” said Juan in a tone of
emotion. ”And what he has cleansed I dare not call common. Were my brother
here to-day, I think he would stretch out to you the right hand, not of forgiveness,
but of fellowship. I have told you how he longed for your soul.”
cxcvi

”God can fulfil more desires of his than that, Don Juan, and I doubt not he
will. What know we of his dealings? we who all these dreary months have been
mourning for and pitying his prisoners, to-morrow to be his crowned and sainted
martyrs? It were a small thing with him to flood the dungeon’s gloom with light,
and give–even here, even now–all their hearts long for to those who suffer for
him.”
Juan was silent. Truly the last was first, and the first last now. Gonsalvo
had reached some truths which were still far beyond his ken. He did not know
how their seed had been sown in his heart by his own brother’s hand. At length
he answered, in a low and faltering voice, ”There is much in what you say. Fray
Sebastian told me–”
”Ay,” cried Gonsalvo eagerly, ”what did Fray Sebastian tell you of him?”
”That he found him in perfect peace, though ill and weak in body. It is my
hope that God himself has delivered him ere now out of their cruel hands. And I
ought to tell you that he spoke of all his relatives with affection, and made special
inquiry after your health.”
Gonsalvo said quietly, ”It is likely I shall see him before you.”
Juan sighed. ”To-morrow will reveal something,” he said.
”Many things, perhaps,” Gonsalvo returned. ”Well–Doña Beatriz waits you
now. There is no poison in that wine, though it be of an earthly vintage; and God
himself puts the cup in your hand; so take it, and be comforted. Yet stay, have
you patience for one word more?”
”For a thousand, if you will, my cousin.”
”I know that in heart you share his–our faith.”
Juan shrank a little from his gaze.
”Of course,” he replied, ”I have been obliged to conceal my opinions; and,
indeed, of late all things have seemed to grow dim and uncertain with me. Some-
times, in my heart of hearts, I cannot tell what truth is.”
”’He came not to call the righteous, but sinners,’” said Gonsalvo. ”And the
sinner who has heard his call must believe, let others doubt as they may. Thank
God, the sinner may not only believe, but love. Yes; in that the beggar at the
gate may take his stand beside the king’s children unreproved. Even I dare to
say, ’Lord, thou knowest all things; thou knowest that I love thee.’ Only to them
it is given to prove it; while I–ay, there was the bitter thought. Long it haunted
me. At last I prayed that if indeed he deigned to accept me, all sinful as I was,
he would give me for a sign something to do, to suffer, or to give up, whereby I
might prove my love.”
”And did he hear you?”
”Yes. He showed me one thing harder to give up than life; one thing harder
to do than to brave the torture and the death of fire.”
 cxcvii

”What is that?”
Once more Gonsalvo veiled his face. Then he murmured–”Harder to give
up–vengeance, hatred; harder to do–to pray for their murderers.”
”I could never do it,” said Juan, starting.
”And if at last–at last–I can,–I, whose anger was fierce, and whose wrath
was cruel, even unto death,–is not that His own work in me?”
Juan half turned away, and did not answer immediately. In his heart many
thoughts were struggling. Far, indeed, was he from praying for his brother’s
murderers; almost as far from wishing to do it. Rather would he invoke God’s
vengeance upon them. Had Gonsalvo, in the depths of his misery, remorse, and
penitence, actually found something which Don Juan Alvarez still lacked? He
said at last, with a humility new and strange to him,–
”My cousin, you are nearer heaven than I.”
”As to time–yes,” said Gonsalvo, with a faint smile. ”Now farewell, cousin;
and thank you.”
”Can I do nothing more for you?”
”Yes; tell my sister that I know all. Now, God bless you, and deliver you
from the evils that beset your path, and bring you and yours to some land where
you may worship him in peace and safety.”
And so the cousins parted, never to meet again upon earth.

XXXVI.
”The Horrible and Tremendous Spectacle.”[#]

”All have passed:

The fearful, and the desperate, and the strong.
Some like the barque that rushes with the blast;
Some like the leaf borne tremblingly along;
And some like men who have but one more field
To fight, and then may slumber on their shield–
Therefore they arm in hope.”–Hemans.

[#] So called by the Inquisitor, De Pegna.

cxcviii

At earliest dawn next morning, Juan established himself in an upper room of

one of the high houses which overlooked the gate of the Triana. He had hired
it from the owners for the purpose, stipulating for sole possession and perfect
loneliness.
At sunrise the great Cathedral bell tolled out solemnly, and all the bells
in the city responded. Through the crowd, which had already gathered in the
street, richly dressed citizens were threading their way on foot. He knew they
were those who, out of zeal for the faith, had volunteered to act as patrinos, or
god-fathers, to the prisoners, walking beside them in the procession. Amongst
them he recognized his cousins, Don Manuel and Don Balthazar. They were all
admitted into the castle by a private door.
Ere long the great gate was flung open. Juan’s eyes were rivetted to the
spot. There was a sound of singing, sweet and low, as of childish voices; for the
first to issue from those gloomy portals were the boys of the College of Doctrine,
dressed in white surplices, and chanting litanies to the saints. Clear and full
at intervals rose from their lips the ”Ora pro nobis” of the response; and tears
gathered unconsciously in the eyes of Juan at the old familiar words.
In great contrast with the white-robed children came the next in order.
Juan drew his breath hard, for here were the penitents: pale, melancholy faces,
”ghastly and disconsolate beyond what can be imagined;”[#] forms clothed in
black, without sleeves, and barefooted–hands carrying extinguished tapers.

[#] Report of De Pegna.

Those who walked foremost in the procession had only been convicted of such
minor offences as blasphemy, sorcery, or polygamy. But by-and-by there came
others, wearing ugly sanbenitos–yellow, with red crosses–and conical paper
mitres on their heads. Juan’s eye kindled with intenser interest; for he knew
that these were Lutherans. Not without a wild dream–hope, perhaps–that the
near approach of death might have subdued his brother’s fortitude, did he scan
in turn every mournful face. There was Luis D’Abrego, the illuminator of church
books; there, walking long afterwards, as far more guilty, was Medel D’Espinosa,
the dealer in embroidery, who had received the Testaments brought by Juliano.
There were many others of much higher rank, with whom he was well ac-
quainted. Altogether more than eighty in number, the long and melancholy train
swept by, every man or woman attended by two monks and a patrino. But Carlos
was not amongst them.
Then came the great Cross of the Inquisition; the face turned towards the
 cxcix

penitent, the back to the impenitent–those devoted to the death of fire. And now
Juan’s breath came and went–his lips trembled; all his soul was in his eager,
straining eyes Now first he saw the hideous zamarra–a black robe, painted all
over with saffron-coloured flames, into which devils and serpents, rudely repre-
sented, were thrusting the impenitent heretic. A paper crown, or carroza, simi-
larly adorned, covered the victim’s head. But the face of the wearer was unknown
to Juan. He was a poor artizan–Juan de Leon by name–who had made his escape
by flight, but had been afterwards apprehended in the Low Countries. Torture
and cruel imprisonment had almost killed him already; but his heart was strong
to suffer for the Lord he loved, and though the pallor of death was on his cheek,
there was no fear there.
But the countenances of those that followed Juan knew too well. Never
afterwards could he exactly recall the order in which they walked; yet every
individual face stamped itself indelibly on his memory. He would carry those
looks in his heart until his dying hour.
No less than four of the victims wore the white tunic and brown mantle
of St. Jerome. One of these was an old man–leaning on his staff for very age,
but with joy and confidence beaming in his countenance. The white locks, from
which Garçias Ariâs had gained the name of Doctor Blanco, had been shorn away;
but Juan easily recognized the waverer of past days, now strengthened with all
might, according to the glorious power of Him whom at last he had learned to
trust. The accomplished Cristobal D’Arellano, and Fernando de San Juan, Master
of the College of Doctrine, followed calm and dauntless. Steadfast, too, though
not without a little natural shrinking from the doom of fire, was a mere youth–
Juan Crisostomo.
Then came one clad in a doctor’s robe, with the step of a conqueror and the
mien of a king. As he issued from the Triana he chanted, in a clear and steady
voice, the words of the Hundred and ninth Psalm: ”Hold not thy peace, O God
of my praise; for the mouth of the ungodly, yea, the mouth of the deceitful, is
opened upon me: and they have spoken against me with false tongues. They
compassed me about also with words of hatred, and fought against me without a
cause.... Help me, O Lord my God: O save me according to thy mercy; and they
shall know how that this is thine hand, and that thou, Lord, hast done it. Though
they curse, yet bless thou.” So died away the voice of Juan Gonsalez, one of the
noblest of Christ’s noble band of witnesses in Spain.
All these were arrayed in the garments of their ecclesiastical orders, to
be solemnly degraded on the scaffold in the Square of St. Francis. But there
followed one already in the full infamy, or glory, of the zamarra and carroza,
with painted flames and demons;–with a thrill of emotion, Juan recognized his
friend and teacher, Cristobal Losada–looking calm and fearless–a hero marching
cc

to his last battle, conquering and to conquer.

Yet even that face soon faded from Juan’s thoughts. For there walked in
that gloomy death procession six females–persons of rank; nearly all of them
young and beautiful, but worn by imprisonment, and more than one amongst
them maimed by torture. Yet if man was cruel, Christ, for whom they suffered,
was pitiful. Their countenances, calm and even radiant, revealed the hidden
power by which they were sustained. Their names–which deserve a place be-
side those of the women of old who were last at his cross and first beside his
open sepulchre–were, Doña Isabella de Baena, in whose house the church was
wont to meet; the two sisters of Juan Gonsalez; Doña Maria de Virves; Doña
Maria de Cornel; and, last of all, Doña Maria de Bohorques, whose face shone
as the first martyr’s, looking up into heaven. She alone, of all the female martyr
band, appeared wearing the gag, an honour due to her heroic efforts to console
and sustain her companions in the court of the Triana.
Juan’s brave heart well-nigh burst with impotent, indignant anguish. ”Ay
de mi, my Spain!” he cried; ”thou seest these things, and endurest them. Lu-
cifer, son of the morning, thou art fallen–fallen from thy high place amongst the
nations.”
It was true. From the man, or nation, ”that hath not,” shall be taken ”even
that which he seemeth to have.” Had the spirit of chivalry, Spain’s boast and
pride, been faithful to its own dim light, it might even then have saved Spain.
But its light became darkness; its trust was betrayed into the hand of supersti-
tion. Therefore, in the just judgment of God, its own degradation quickly fol-
lowed. Spain’s chivalry lost gradually all that was genuine, all that was noble in
it; until it became only a faint and ghastly mockery, a sign of corruption, like the
phosphoric light that flickers above the grave.
Absorbed in his bitter thoughts, Juan well-nigh missed the last of the
doomed ones–last because highest in worldly rank. Sad and slow, with eyes bent
down, Don Juan Ponce de Leon walked along. The flames on his zamarra were re-
versed; poor symbol of the poor mercy for which he sold his joy and triumph and
dimmed the brightness of his martyr crown. Yet surely he did not lose the glad
welcome that awaited him at the close of that terrible day; nor the right to say,
with the erring restored apostle, ”Lord, thou knowest all things; thou knowest
that I love thee.”
All the living victims had passed now. And Don Carlos Alvarez was not
amongst them. Juan breathed a sigh of relief; but not yet did his straining eyes re-
lax their gaze. For Rome’s vengeance reached even to the grave. Next, there were
borne along the statues of those who had died in heresy, robed in the hideous za-
marra, and followed by black chests containing their bones to be burned.
Not there!–No–not there! At last Juan’s trembling hands let go the frame-
 cci

work of the window to which they had been clinging; and, the intense strain
over, he fell back exhausted.
The stately pageant swept by, unwatched by him. He never saw, what all
Seville was gazing on with admiration, the grand procession of the judges and
counsellors of the city, in their robes of office; the chapter of the Cathedral; the
long slow train of priests and monks that followed. And then, in a space left
empty out of reverence, the great green standard of the Inquisition was borne
aloft, and over it a gilded crucifix. Then came the Inquisitors themselves, in their
splendid official dresses. And lastly, on horseback and in gorgeous apparel, the
familiars of the Inquisition.
It was well that Juan’s eyes were turned from that sight. What avails it for
lips white with passion to heap wild curses on the heads of those for whom God’s
curse already ”waits in calm shadow,” until the day of reckoning be fully come?
Curses, after all, are weapons dangerous to use, and apt to pierce the hand that
wields them.
His first feeling was one of intense relief, almost of joy. He had escaped the
maddening torture of seeing his brother dragged before his eyes to the death of
anguish and shame. But to that succeeded the bitter thought, growing soon into
full, mournful conviction, ”I shall see his face no more on earth. He is dead–or
dying.”
Yet that day the deep, strong current of his brotherly love was crossed by
another tide of emotion. Those heroic men and women, whom he watched as
they passed along so calmly to their doom, had he no bond of sympathy with
them? Was it so long since he had pressed Losada’s hand in grateful friendship,
and thanked Doña Isabella de Baena for the teaching received beneath her roof?
With a thrill of keen and sudden shame the gallant soldier saw himself a recreant,
who had flaunted his gay uniform on the parade and at the field-day, but when
the hour of conflict came, had stepped aside, and let the sword and the bullet find
out braver and truer hearts.
He could not die thus for his faith. On the contrary, it cost him but little
to conceal it, to live in every respect like an orthodox Catholic. What, then, had
they which he had not? Something that enabled his young brother–the boy who
used to weep for a blow–to stand and look fearless in the face of a horrible death.
Something that enabled even poor, wild, passionate Gonsalvo to forgive and pray
ccii

for the murderers of the woman he loved. What was it?

XXXVII.
Something Ended and Something Begun.

”O sweet and strange it is to think that ere this day is done.

The voice that now is speaking may be beyond the sun:
For ever and for ever with those just souls and true–
And what is life that we should mourn, why make we such ado?”–
Tennyson

Late in the afternoon of that day, Doña Inez entered her sick brother’s room.

A glitter of silk, rose-coloured and black, of costly lace and of gems and gold,
seemed to surround her. But as she threw aside the mantilla that partially shaded
her face, and almost sank on a seat beside the bed, it was easy to see that she was
very faint and weary, if not also very sick at heart.
”Santa Maria! I am tired to death,” she murmured. ”The heat was killing;
and the whole business interminably long.”
Gonsalvo gazed at her with eager eyes, as a man dying of thirst might gaze
on one who holds a cup of water; but for a while he did not speak. At last he
said, pointing to some wine that lay near, beside an untasted meal,–
”Drink, then.”
”What, my brother!” said Doña Inez, reproachfully, ”you have not touched
food to-day! You–so ill and weak?”
”I am a man–even still,” said Gonsalvo with a little bitterness in his tone.
Doña Inez drank, and for a few moments fanned herself in silence, distress
and embarrassment in her face.
At last Gonsalvo, who had never withdrawn his eager gaze, said in a low
voice,–
”Sister, remember your promise.”
”I am afraid–for you.”
”You need not,” he gasped. ”Only tell me all.”
Doña Inez passed her hand wearily across her brow.
”Everything floats before me,” she said. ”What with the music, and the
 cciii

mass, and the incense; and the crosses, and banners, and gorgeous robes; and
then the taking of the oaths, and the sermon of the faith.”
”Still–you kept my charge?”
”I did, brother.” She lowered her voice. ”Hard as it was, I looked at her. If
it comforts you to know that, all through that long day, her face was as calm as
ever I have seen it listening to Fray Constantino’s sermons, you may take that
comfort to your heart When her sentence had been read, she was asked to recant;
and I heard her answer rise clear and distinct, ’I neither can nor will recant.’ Ave
Maria Sanctissima! it is all a great mystery.”
There was a silence, then she resumed,–
”And Señor Cristobal Losada–” but the thought of the kind and skilful
physician who had watched beside her own sick-bed, and brought back her babe
from the gates of the grave, almost overcame her. Turning quickly to other vic-
tims, she went on–
”There were four monks of St. Jerome. Think of the White Doctor, that
every one believed so good a man, so pious and orthodox! Another of them, Fray
Cristobal D’Arellano, was accused in his sentence of some wicked words against
Our Lady which, it would seem, he never said. He cried out boldly, before them
all, ’It is false! I never advanced such a blasphemy; and I am ready to prove the
contrary with the Bible in my hand.’ Every one seemed too much amazed even to
think of ordering him to be gagged: and, for my part, I am glad the poor wretch
had his word for the last time. I cannot help wishing they had equally forgotten
to silence Doctor Juan Gonzales; for it does not appear that he was speaking any
blasphemy, but merely a word of comfort to a poor pale girl, his sister, as they
told me. Two of them are to die with him–God help them!–Holy Saints forgive
me; I forgot we were told not to pray for them,” and she crossed herself.
”Does my sister really believe that compassionate word a sin in God’s
sight?”
”How am I to know? I believe whatever the Church says, of course. And
surely there is enough in these days to inspire us with a pious horror of heresy.
Pues,” she resumed, ”there was that long and terrible ceremony of degrading from
the priesthood. And yet that Gonsalez passed through it all as calm and unmoved
as though he were but putting on his robes to say mass. His mother and his two
brothers are still in prison, it is said, awaiting their doom. Of all the relaxed, I am
told that only Don Juan Ponce de Leon showed any sign of penitence. For the
sake of his noble house, one is glad to think he is not so hardened as the rest. Ay
de mi! Whether it be right or wrong, I cannot help pitying their unhappy souls.”
”Pity your own soul, not theirs,” said Gonsalvo. ”For I tell you Christ him-
self, in all his glory and majesty, at the right hand of the Father, will stand up to
receive them this night, as he did to welcome St. Stephen long ago.”
cciv

”Oh, my poor brother, what dreadful words you speak! It is a mortal sin
even to listen to you. Take thought, I implore you, of your own situation.”
”I have taken thought,” interrupted Gonsalvo, faintly. ”But I can bear no
more–just now. Leave me, I pray you, alone with God.”
”If you would even try to say an Ave!–But I fear you are ill–suffering. I do
not like to leave you thus.”
”Do not heed me; I shall be better soon. And a vow is upon me that I must
keep to-day.” Once more he flung the wasted hand across his face to conceal it.
Irresolute whether to go or stay, she stood for some minutes watching him
silently. At length she caught a low murmur, and hoping that he prayed, she bent
over him to hear. Only three words reached her ear. They were these–”Father,
forgive them.”
After an interval, Gonsalvo looked up again. ”I thought you were gone,” he
said. ”Go now, I entreat of you. But so soon as you know the end, spare not to
come and tell me. For I wait for that.”
Thus entreated, Doña Inez had no choice but to leave him alone, which she
did.
Evening had worn to night, and night was beginning to wear towards day-
break, when at last Don Garçia Ramirez, and those of his servants who had ac-
companied him to the Prado San Sebastian to see the end, returned home.
Doña Inez sat awaiting her husband in the patio. She looked pale and lan-
guid; apparently the great holiday of Seville had been anything but a joyful day
to her.
Don Garçia divested himself of his cloak and sword, and dismissed the ser-
vants to their beds. But when his wife invited him to partake of the supper she
had prepared, he turned upon her with very unusual ill-humour. ”It is little like
thy wonted wit, señora mia, to bid a man to his breakfast at midnight,” he said.
Yet he drank deeply of the Xeres wine that stood on the board beside the venison
pasty and the manchet bread.
At last, after long patience, Doña Inez won from his lips what she desired to
hear. ”Oh yes; all is over. Our Lady defend us! I have never seen such obstinacy;
nor could I have believed it possible unless I had seen it. The criminals encour-
aged each other to the very last. Those girls, the sisters of Gonsalez, repeated
their Credo at the stake; whereupon the attendant Brethren entreated them to
have so much pity on their own souls as to say, ’I believe in the Roman Catholic
Church.’ They answered, ’We will do as our brother does.’ So the gag was re-
moved, and Doctor Juan cried aloud, ’Add nothing to the good confession you
have made already.’ But for all that, order was given to strangle them; and one
of the friars told us they died in the true faith. I suppose it is not a sin to hope
they did.”
 ccv

After a pause, he continued, in a deeper tone, ”Señor Cristobal amazed me

as much as any of them. At the very stake, some of the Brethren undertook to
argue with him. But seeing that we were all listening, and might hear somewhat
to the hurt of our souls, they began to speak in the Latin tongue. Our physi-
cian immediately did the same. I am no scholar myself; but there were learned
men there who marked every word, and one of them told me afterwards that
the doomed man spoke with as much elegance and propriety as if he had been
contending for an academic prize, instead of waiting for the lighting of the fire
which was to consume him. This unheard-of calmness and composure, whence
is it? The devil’s own work, or”—-he broke off suddenly and resumed in a differ-
ent tone, ”Señora mia, have you thought of the hour? In Heaven’s name, let us
to our beds!”
”I cannot go to rest until you tell me one thing more. Doña Maria de Bo-
horques?”
”Vaya, vaya! have we not had enough of it all?”
”Nay; I have made a promise. I must entreat you to tell me how Doña Maria
de Bohorques met her doom.”
”With unflinching hardihood. Don Juan Ponce tried to urge her to yield
somewhat. But she refused, saying it was not now a time for reasoning, and that
they ought rather to meditate on the Lord’s death and passion. (They believe in
that, it seems.) When she was bound to the stake, the monks and friars crowded
round her, and pressed her only to repeat the Credo. She did so; but began to
add some explanations, which, I suppose, were heretical. Then immediately the
command was given to strangle her; and so, in one moment, while she was yet
speaking, death came to her.”
”Then she did not suffer? She escaped the fire! Thank God!”
Five minutes afterwards, Doña Inez stood by her brother’s bed. He lay in
the same posture, his face still shaded by his hand.
”Brother,” she said gently–”brother, all is over. She did not suffer. It was
done in one moment.”
There was no answer.
”Brother, are you not glad she did not feel the fire? Can you not thank God
for it? Speak to me.”
Still no answer.
He could not be asleep! Impossible!–”Speak to me, Gonsalvo!–Brother!”
She drew close to him; she touched his hand to remove it from his face. The
next moment a cry of horror rang through the house. It brought the servants and
Don Garçia himself to the room.
”He is dead! God and Our Lady have mercy on his soul!” said Don Garçia,
after a brief examination.
ccvi

”If only he had had the Holy Sacrament, I could have borne it!” said Doña
Inez; and then, kneeling down beside the couch, she wept bitterly.
So passed the beggar with the King’s sons, through the golden gate into the
King’s own presence-chamber. His wrecked and troublous life over, his passion-
ate heart at rest for ever, the erring, repentant Gonsalvo found entrance into the
same heaven as D’Arellano, and Gonsalez, and Losada, with their radiant martyr-
crowns. In the many mansions there was a place for him, as for those heroic and
triumphant ones. He wore the same robe as they–a robe washed and made white,
not in the blood of martyrs, but in the blood of the Lamb.

XXXVIII.
Nuera Again.

”Happy places have grown holy;

If ye went where once ye went,
Only tears would fall down slowly.
As at solemn Sacrament
Household names, that used to flutter
Through your laughter unawares,
God’s divine one ye can utter
With less trembling in your prayers.”–E. B. Browning

A chill and dreary torpor stole over Juan’s fiery spirit after the Auto. The settled

conviction that his brother was dead took possession of his mind. Moreover, his
soul had lost its hold upon the faith which he once embraced so warmly. He
had consciously ceased to be true to his best convictions, and those convictions,
in turn, had ceased to support him. His confidence in himself, his trust in his
own heart, had been shaken to its foundations. And he was very far from having
gained in its stead that strong confidence in God which would have infinitely
more than counter-balanced its loss.
Thus two or three slow and melancholy months wore away. Then, for-
tunately for him, events happened that forced him, in spite of himself, to the
exertion that saves from the deadly slumber of despair. It became evident, that
 ccvii

if he did not wish to see the last earthly treasure that remained to him swept out
of his reach for ever, he must rouse himself from his lethargy so far as to grasp
and hold it; for now Don Manuel commanded his ward to bestow her hand upon
his rival, Señor Luis Rotelo.
In her anguish and dismay, Beatriz fled for refuge to her kind-hearted
cousin, Doña Inez.
Doña Inez received her into her house, where she soothed and comforted
her; and soon found means to despatch an ”esquelita,” or billet, to Don Juan, to
the following effect:–”Doña Beatriz is here. Remember, my cousin, ’that a leap
over a ditch is better than another man’s prayer.’”
To which Juan replied immediately:–
”Señora and my cousin, I kiss your feet. Lend me a helping hand, and I take
the leap.”
Doña Inez desired nothing better. Being a Spanish lady, she loved an in-
trigue for its own sake; being a very kindly disposed lady, she loved an intrigue
for a benevolent object. With her active co-operation and assistance, and her hus-
band’s connivance, it was quickly arranged that Don Juan should carry off Doña
Beatriz from their house to a little country chapel in the neighbourhood, where a
priest would be in readiness to perform the solemn rite which should unite them
for ever. Thence they were to proceed at once to Nuera, Don Juan disguising
himself for the journey as the lady’s attendant. Doña Inez did not anticipate that
her father and brothers would take any hostile steps after the conclusion of the
affair–glad though they might have been to prevent it–since there was nothing
which they hated and dreaded so much as a public scandal.
All Juan’s latent fire and energy woke up again to meet the peril and to
secure the prize. He was successful in everything; the plan had been well laid, and
was well and promptly carried out. And thus it happened, that amidst December-
snows he bore his beautiful bride home to Nuera in triumph. If triumph it could
be called, overcast by the ever-present memory of the one who ”was not,” which
rested like a deep shadow upon all joy, and subdued and chastened it. Few things
in life are sadder than a great, long-expected blessing coming thus;–like a friend
from a foreign land whose return has been eagerly anticipated, but who, after
years of absence, meets us changed in countenance and in heart, unrecognizing
and unrecognized.
Dolores welcomed her young master and his bride with affection and
thankfulness. But he noticed that the dark hair, at the time of his last visit still
only threaded with silver, had grown white as the mountain snows. In former
days Dolores, could not have told which of the noble youths, her lady’s gallant
sons, had been the dearer to her. But now she knew full well. Her heart was in
the grave with the boy she had taken a helpless babe from his dying mother’s
ccviii

arms. But, after all, was he in the grave? This was the question which she asked
herself day by day, and many times a day. She was not quite so sure of the an-
swer as Señor Don Juan seemed to be. Since the day of the Auto, he had assumed
all the outward signs of mourning for his brother.
Fray Sebastian was also at Nuera, and proved a real help and comfort to its
inmates. His very presence served to shield the household from any suspicions
that might have been awakened with regard to their faith. For who could doubt
the orthodoxy of Don Juan Alvarez, while he not only contributed liberally to
the support of his parish church, but also kept a pious Franciscan in his family,
in the capacity of private chaplain? Though it must be confessed that the Fray’s
duties were anything but onerous; now, as in former days, he showed himself a
man fond of quiet, who for the most part held his peace, and let every one do
what was right in his own eyes.
He was now on far more cordial terms with Dolores than he had ever been
before. This was partly because he had learned that worse physical evils than
ollas of lean mutton, or cheese of goat’s milk, might be borne with patience, even
with thankfulness. But partly also because Dolores now really tried to con suit
his tastes and to promote his comfort. Many a savoury dish ”which the Fray
used to like” did she trouble herself to prepare; many a flask of wine from their
diminishing store did she gladly produce, ”for the kind words that he spake to
him in his sorrow and loneliness.”
In spite of the depressing influences around her, Doña Beatriz could not but
be very happy. For was not Don Juan hers, all her own, her own for ever? And
with the zeal love inspires, and the skill love imparts, she applied herself to the
task of brightening his darkened life. Not quite without effect. Even from that
stern and gloomy brow the shadows at length began to roll away.
Don Juan could not speak of his sorrow. For weeks indeed after his return
to Nuera his brother’s name did not pass his lips. Better had it been otherwise,
both for himself and for Dolores. Her heart, aching with its own lonely anguish
and its vague, dark surmisings, often longed to know her young master’s true
innermost thought about his brother’s fate. But she did not dare to ask him.
At last, however, this painful silence was partially broken through. One
morning the old servant accosted her master with an air of some displeasure. It
was in the inner room within the hall. Holding in her hand a little book, she
said,–”May it please your Excellency to pardon my freedom, but it is not well
done of you to leave this lying open on your table. I am a simple woman; still
I am at no loss to know what and whence it is. If you will not destroy it, and
cannot keep it safe and secret, I implore of your worship to give it to me.”
Juan held out his hand for it. ”It is dearer to me than any earthly posses-
sion,” he said briefly.
 ccix

”It had need to be dearer than your life, señor, if you mean to leave it about
in that fashion.”
”I have lost the right to say so much,” Juan answered. ”And yet, Dolores–
tell me, would it break your heart if I sold this place–you know it is mortgaged
heavily already–and quitted the country?”
Juan expected a start, if not a cry of surprise and dismay. That Alvarez
de Meñaya should sell the inheritance of his fathers seemed indeed a monstrous
proposal. In the eyes of the world it would be an act of insanity, if not a crime.
What then would it appear to one who loved the name of Santillanos y Meñaya
far better than her life?
But the still face of Dolores never changed. ”Nothing would break my heart
now,” she said calmly.
”You would come with us?”
She did not even ask whither. She did not care: all her thoughts were in the
past.
”That is of course, señor,” she answered. ”If I had but first assurance of one
thing.”
”Name it; and if I can assure you, I will.”
Instead of naming it she turned silently away. But presently turning again,
she asked, ”Will your Excellency please to tell me, is it that book that is driving
you into exile?”
”It is. I am bound to confess the truth before men; and that is impossible
here.”
”But are you sure then that it is the truth?”
”Sure. I have read God’s message both in the darkness and in the light I
have seen it traced in characters of blood–and fire.”
”But–forgive the question, señor–does it make you happy?”
”Why do you ask?”
”Because, Señor Don Juan”–she spoke with an effort, but firmly, and fixing
her eyes on his face–”he who gave you yon book found therein that which made
him happy. I know it; he was here, and I watched him. When he came first,
he was ill, or else very sorrowful, I know not why. But he learned from that
book that God Almighty loved him, and that the Lord and Saviour Christ was
his friend; and then his sorrow passed away, and his heart grew full of joy, so
full that he must needs be telling me–ay, and even that poor dolt of a cura down
there in the village–about the good news. And I think”–but here she stopped,
frightened at her own boldness.
”What think you?” asked Juan, with difficulty restraining his emotion.
”Well, Señor Don Juan, I think that if that good news be true, it would
not be so hard to suffer for it. Blessed Virgin! Could it be aught but joy to me,
ccx

for instance, to lie in a dark dungeon, or even to be hanged or burned, if that

could work out his deliverance? There be worse things in the world than pain or
prisons. For where there’s love, señor—- Moreover, it comes upon me sometimes
that the Lords Inquisitors may have mistaken his case. Wise and learned they
may be, and good and holy they are, of course–’twere sin to doubt it–yet they may
mistake sometimes. ’Twas but the other day, my old eyes growing dim apace, that
I took a blessed gleam of sunlight that had fallen on yon oak table for a stain, and
set to work to rub it off; the Lord forgive me for meddling with one of the best of
his works! And, for aught we know, just so may they be doing, mistaking God’s
light upon the soul for the devil’s stain of heresy. But the sunlight is stronger
than they, after all.”
”Dolores, you are half a Lutheran already yourself,” answered Juan in sur-
prise.
”I, señor! The Lord forbid! I am an old Christian, and a good Catholic,
and so I hope to die. But if you must hear all the truth, I would walk in a yellow
sanbenito, with a taper in my hand, before I would acknowledge that he ever said
one word or thought one thought that was not Catholic and Christian too. All his
crime was to find out that the good Lord loved him, and to be happy on account
of it. If that be your religion also, Señor Don Juan, I have nothing to say against
it. And, as I have said, God granting me, in his great mercy, one assurance first,
I am ready to follow you and your lady to the world’s end.”
With these words on her lips she left the room. For a time Juan sat silent in
deep thought. Then he opened the Testament, and turned over its leaves until he
found the parable of the sower. ”’Some fell upon stony places,’” he read, ”’where
they had not much earth; and forthwith they sprung up, because they had no
deepness of earth: and when the sun was up, they were scorched; and, because
they had no root, they withered away.’ There,” he said within himself, ”in those
words is written the history of my life, from the day my brother confessed his
faith to me in the garden of San Isodro. God help me, and forgive my backsliding!
But at least it is not too late to go humbly back to the beginning, and to ask him
who alone can do it to break up the fallow ground.”
He closed the book, walked to the window and looked out. Presently his
eye was attracted to those dear mystic words on the pane, which both the brothers
had loved and dreamed over from their childhood,–

”El Dorado
Yo hé trovado.”

And at that moment the sun was shining on them as brightly as it used to do in
those old days gone by for ever.
 ccxi

No vague dream of any good, foreshadowed by the omen to him or to his

house, crossed the mind of the practical Don Juan. But he seemed to hear once
more the voice of his young brother saying close beside him, ”Look, Ruy, the
light is on our father’s words.” And memory bore him back to a morning long
ago, when some slight boyish quarrel had been ended thus.
Over his stern, handsome face there passed a look that shaded and softened
it, and his eyes grew dim–dim with tears.
But just then Doña Beatriz, radiant from a morning walk, and with her
hands full of early spring flowers, tripped in, singing a Spanish ballad,–

”Ye men that row the galleys,

I see my lady fair;
She gazes at the fountain
That leaps for pleasure there.”

Beatrix was a child of the city; and, moreover, her life hitherto had been an

unloved and unloving one. Now her nature was expanding under the wholesome
influences of home life and home love, and of simple healthful pleasures. ”Look,
Don Juan, what pretty things grow in your fields here! I have never seen the
like,” she said, breaking off in her song to exhibit her treasures.
Don Juan looked carelessly at them, lovingly at her. ”I would fain hear a
morning hymn from those sweet, tuneful lips,” he pleaded.
”Most willingly, amigo mio,–

’Sanctissima–’”

”Hush, my beloved; hush, I entreat of you.” And laying his hand lightly on

her shoulder, he gazed in her face with a mixture of fond and tender admiration
and of gentle reproach difficult to describe. ”Not that. For the sake of all that lies
between us and the old faith, not that. Rather let us sing together,–

’Vexill Regis prodeunt.’

For you know that between us and our King there stands, and there needs to
stand, no human mediator. Do you not, my beloved?”
”I know that you are right,” answered Beatrix, still reading her faith in Don
Juan’s eyes. ”But we can sing afterwards, whatever you like, and as much as you
will. I pray you let us come forth now into the sunshine together. Look, what a
ccxii

glorious morning it is!”

XXXIX.
Left Behind.

”They are all gone into a world of light.

And I alone am lingering here.”–Henry Vaughan.

The change of seasons brought little change to those dark cells in the Triana,

where neither the glory of summer nor the breath of spring could come. While
the world, with its living interests, its hopes and fears, its joys and sorrows, kept
surging round them, not even an echo of its many voices reached the doomed
ones within, who lay so near, yet so far from all, ”fast bound in misery and iron.”
Not yet had the Deliverer come to Carlos. More than once he had seemed
very near. During the summer heats, so terrible in that prison, fever had wasted
the captive’s already enfeebled frame; but this was the means of prolonging his
life, for the eve of the Auto found him unable to walk across his cell. Still he
heard without very keen sorrow the fate of his beloved friends, so soon did he
hope to follow them.
And yet, month after month, life lingered on. In his circumstances restora-
tion to health was simply impossible. Not that he endured more than others,
or even as much as some. He was not loaded with fetters, or buried in one of
the frightful subterranean cells where daylight never entered. Still, when to the
many physical sufferings his position entailed was added the weight of sickness,
weakness, and utter loneliness, they formed together a burden heavy enough to
have crushed even a strong heart to despair.
Long ago the last gleam of human sympathy and kindness had faded from
him. Maria Gonsalez was herself a prisoner, receiving such payment as men had
to give her for her brave deeds of charity. God’s payment, however, was yet to
come, and would be of another sort. Herrera, the under-gaoler, was humane, but
very timid; moreover, his duties seldom led him to that part of the prison where
Carlos lay. So that he was left dependent upon the tender mercies of Caspar
Benevidio, which were indeed cruel.
 ccxiii

And yet, in spite of all, he was not crushed, not despairing. The lamp of
patient endurance burned on steadily, because it was continually fed with oil by
an unseen Hand.
It has been beautifully said, ”The personal love of Christ to you, felt, de-
lighted in, returned, is actually, truly, simply, without exaggeration, the deepest
joy and the deepest feeling that the heart of man or woman can know. It will
absolutely satisfy your heart. It would satisfy your heart if it were his will that
you should spend the rest of your life alone in a dungeon.”
Just this, nothing else, nothing less, sustained Carlos throughout those long
slow months of suffering, which had now come to ”add themselves and make the
years.” It proved sufficient for him. It has proved sufficient for thousands–God’s
unknown saints and martyrs, whose names we shall learn first in heaven.
Those who still occasionally sought access to him, in the hope of trans-
forming the obstinate heretic into a penitent, marvelled greatly at the cheerful
calm with which he was wont to receive them and to answer their arguments.
Sometimes he would even brave all the wrath of Benevidio, and raising
his voice as loud as he could, he would make the gloomy vaults re-echo to such
words as these: ”The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear? The
Lord is the strength of my life; of whom shall I be afraid?” Or these: ”Whom have
I in heaven but thee? and there is none upon earth that I desire beside thee. My
flesh and my heart faileth; but God is the strength of my heart, and my portion
for ever.”
But still it was not in Christ’s promise, nor was it to be expected, that his
prisoner should never know hours of sorrow, weariness, and heart-sinking. Such
hours came sometimes. And on the very morning when Don Juan and Doña
Beatriz were going forth together into the spring sunshine through the castle
gate of Nuera, Carlos, in his dungeon, was passing through one of the darkest of
these. He lay on his mat, his face covered with his wasted hands, through which
tears were slowly falling. It was but very seldom that he wept now; tears had
grown rare and scarce with him.
The evening before, he had received a visit from two Jesuits, bound on the
only errand which would have procured their admission there. Irritated by his
bold and ready answers to the usual arguments, they had recourse to declama-
tion. And one of them bethought himself of mentioning the fate of the Lutherans
who suffered at the two great Autos of Valladolid. ”Most of the heretics,” said the
Jesuit, ”though when they were in prison they were as obstinate as thou art now,
yet had their eyes opened in the end to the error of their ways, and accepted rec-
onciliation at the stake. At the last great Act of Faith, held in the presence of King
Philip, only Don Carlos de Seso–” Here he stopped, surprised at the agitation of
the prisoner, who had heard their threatenings against himself so calmly.
ccxiv

”De Seso! De Seso! Have they murdered him too!” moaned Carlos, and for
a few brief moments he gave way to natural emotion. But quickly recovering
himself, he said, ”I shall only see him the sooner.”
”Were you acquainted with him?” asked the Jesuit.
”I loved and honoured him. My avowing that cannot hurt him now,” an-
swered Carlos, who had grown used to the bitter thought that any name would
be disgraced, and its owner imperilled, by his mentioning it with affection.
”But if you will do me so much kindness,” he added, ”I pray you to tell me
anything you know of his last hours. Any word he spoke.”
”He could speak nothing,” said the younger of his two visitors. ”Before he
left the prison he had uttered so many horrible blasphemies against Holy Church
and Our Lady that he was obliged to wear the gag during the whole ceremony,
’lest he should offend the little ones.’”[#]

[#] A genuine Inquisitorial expression.

This last cruel wrong–the refusal of leave to the dying to speak one word in
defence of the truths he died for–stung Carlos to the quick. It wrung from lips so
patient hitherto words of indignant threatening. ”God will judge your cruelty,”
he said. ”Go on, fill up the measure of your guilt, for your time is short. One day,
and that soon, there will be a grand spectacle, grander than your Autos. Then
shall you, torturers of God’s saints, call upon the mountains and rocks to cover
you, and to hide you from the wrath of the Lamb.”
Once more alone, his passionate anger died away. And it was well. Sur-
rounded as he was on every side by strong, cold, relentless wrong and cruelty,
if his spirit had beaten its wings against those bars of iron, it would soon have
fallen to the ground faint and helpless, with crushed pinions. It was not in such
vain strivings that he could find, or keep, the deep calm peace with which his
heart was filled; it was in the quiet place at his Saviour’s feet, from whence, if he
looked at his enemies at all, it was only to pity and forgive them.
But though anger was gone, a heavy burden of sorrow remained. De Seso’s
noble form, shrouded in the hideous zamarra, his head crowned with the carroza,
his face disfigured by the gag,–these were ever before his eyes. He well-nigh
forgot that all this was over now–that for him the conflict was ended and the
triumph begun.
Could he have known even as much as we know now of the close of that
heroic life, it might have comforted him.
Don Carlos de Seso met his doom at the second of the two great Autos
 ccxv

celebrated at Valladolid during the year 1559. At the first, the most steadfast
sufferers were Francisco de Vibero Cazalla, one of a family of confessors; and
Antonio Herezuelo, whose pathetic story–the most thrilling episode of Spanish
martyrology–would need an abler pen than ours.
During his lingering imprisonment of a year and a half, De Seso never
varied in his own clear testimony to the truth, never compromised any of his
brethren. Informed at last that he was to die the next day, he requested writing
materials. These being furnished him, he placed on record a confession of his
faith, which Llorente, the historian of the Inquisition, thus describes:–”It would
be difficult to convey an idea of the uncommon vigour of sentiment with which
he filled two sheets of paper, though he was then in the presence of death. He
handed what he had written to the Alguazil, with these words: ’This is the true
faith of the gospel, as opposed to that of the Church of Rome, which has been
corrupted for ages. In this faith I wish to die, and in the remembrance and lively
belief of the passion of Jesus Christ, to offer to God my body, now reduced so
low.’”
All that night and the next morning were spent by the friars in vain en-
deavours to induce him to recant. During the Auto, though he could not speak,
his countenance showed the steadfastness of his soul–a steadfastness which even
the sight of his beloved wife amongst those condemned to perpetual imprison-
ment failed to disturb. When at last, as he was bound to the stake, the gag was
removed, he said to those who stood around him, still urging him to yield, ”I
could show you that you ruin yourselves by not following my example; but there
is no time. Executioners, light the fire that is to consume me.”
Even in the act of death it was given him, though unconsciously, to
strengthen the faith of another. In the martyr band was a poor man, Juan
Sanchez, who had been a servant of the Cazallas, and was apprehended in Flan-
ders with Juan de Leon. He had borne himself bravely throughout; but when the
fire was kindled, the ropes that bound him to the stake having given way, the
instinct of self-preservation made him rush from the flames, and, not knowing
what he did, spring upon the scaffold where those who yielded at the last were
wont to receive absolution. The attendant monks at once surrounded him, offer-
ing him the alternative of the milder death. Recovering self-possession, he looked
around him. At one side knelt the penitents, at the other, motionless amidst the
flames, De Seso stood,

”As standing in his own high hall.”

His choice was made. ”I will die like De Seso,” he said calmly; and then walked
ccxvi

deliberately back to the stake, where he met his doom with joy.
Another brave sufferer at this Auto, Don Domingo de Roxas, ventured to
make appeal to the justice of the King, only to receive the memorable reply, never
to be read without a shudder,–”I would carry wood to burn my son, if he were
such a wretch as thou!”
All these circumstances Carlos never heard on this side of the grave. But in
the quiet Sabbath-keeping that remaineth for the people of God, there will surely
be leisure enough to talk over past trials and triumphs. At present, however, he
only saw the dark side–only knew the bare and bitter facts of suffering and death.
He had not merely loved De Seso as his instructor; he had admired him with the
generous enthusiasm of a young man for a senior in whom he recognizes his
ideal–all that he himself would fain become. If the Spains had but known the day
of their visitation, he doubted not that man would have been their leader in the
path of reform. But they knew it not; and so, instead, the chariot of fire had come
for him. For him, and for nearly all the men and women whose hands Carlos had
been wont to clasp in loving brotherhood. Losada, D’Arellano, Ponce de Leon,
Doña Isabella de Baena, Doña Maria de Bohorques,–all these honoured names,
and many more, did he repeat, adding after each one of them, ”At rest with Christ.”
Somewhere in the depths of those dreary dungeons it might be that the heroic
Juliano, his father in the faith, was lingering still; and also Fray Constantino, and
the young monk of San Isodro, Fray Fernando. But the prison walls sundered
them quite as hopelessly from him as the River of Death itself.
Earlier ties sometimes seemed to him only like things he had read or
dreamed of. During his fever, indeed, old familiar faces had often flitted round
him. Dolores sat beside him, laying her hand on his burning brow; Fray Sebastian
taught him disjointed, meaningless fragments from the schoolmen; Juan himself
either spoke cheerful words of hope and trust, or else talked idly of long-forgotten
trifles.
But all this was over now: neither dream nor fancy came to break his utter,
terrible loneliness. He knew that he was never to see Juan again, nor Dolores,
nor even Fray Sebastian. The world was dead to him, and he to it. And as for
his brethren in the faith, they had gone ”to the light beyond the clouds, and the
rest beyond the storms,” where he would so gladly be. Why, then, was he left so
long, like one standing without in the cold? Why did not the golden gate open
for him as well as for them? What was he doing in this place?–what could he
do for his Master’s cause or his Master’s honour? He did not murmur. By this
time his Saviour’s prayer, ”Not my will, but thine be done,” had been wrought
into the texture of his being with the scarlet, purple, and golden threads of pain,
of patience, and of faith. But it is well for His tried ones that He knows longing
is not murmuring. Very full of longing were the words–words rather of pleading
 ccxvii

than of prayer–that rose continually from the lips of Carlos that day,–”And now,
Lord, what wait I for?”

XL.
”A Satisfactory Penitent.”

”How long in thralldom’s grasp I lay

I knew not; for my soul was black,
And knew no change of night or day.”–Campbell.

Carlos was sleeping tranquilly in his dungeon on the following night, when the

opening of the door aroused him. He started with sickening dread, the horrors of
the torture-room rising in an instant before his imagination. Benevidio entered,
followed by Herrera, and commanded him to rise and dress immediately. Long
experience of the Santa Casa had taught him that he might as well make an in-
quiry of its doors and walls as of any of its officials. So he obeyed in silence, and
slowly and painfully enough. But he was soon relieved from his worst fear by
seeing Herrera fold together the few articles of clothing he had been allowed to
have with him, preparatory to carrying them away. ”It is only, then, a change of
prison,” he thought; ”and wherever they bring me, heaven will be equally near.”
His limbs, enfeebled by two years of close confinement, and lame from
the effects of one terrible night, were sorely tried by what he thought an almost
interminable walk through corridors and down narrow winding stairs. But at
last he was conducted to a small postern door, which, greatly to his surprise,
Benevidio proceeded to unlock. The kind-hearted Herrera took advantage of the
moment when Benevidio was thus occupied to whisper,–
”We are bringing you to the Dominican prison, señor; you will be better
used there.”
Carlos thanked him by a grateful look and a pressure of the hand. But an
instant afterwards he had forgotten his words. He had forgotten everything save
that he stood once more in God’s free air, and that God’s own boundless heaven,
spangled with ten thousand stars, was over him, no dungeon roof between. For
one rapturous moment he gazed upwards, thanking God in his heart. But the
ccxviii

fresh air he breathed seemed to intoxicate him like strong wine. He grew faint,
and leaned for support on Herrera.
”Courage, señor; it is not far–only a few paces,” said the under-gaoler,
kindly.
Weak as he was, Carlos wished the distance a hundred times greater. But
it proved quite long enough for his strength. By the time he was delivered over
into the keeping of a couple of lay brothers, and locked by them into a cell in
the Dominican monastery, he was scarcely conscious of anything save excessive
fatigue.
The next morning was pretty far advanced before any one came to him;
but at last he was honoured with a visit from the prior himself. He said frankly,
and with perfect truth,–
”I am glad to find myself in your hands, my lord.”
To one accustomed to feel himself an object of terror, it is a new and pleas-
ant sensation to be trusted. Even a wild beast will sometimes spare the weak
but fearless creature that ventures to play with it: and Don Fray Ricardo was not
a wild beast; he was only a stern, narrow, conscientious man, the willing and
efficient agent of a terrible system. His brow relaxed visibly as he said,–
”I have always sought your true good, my son.”
”I am well aware of it, father.”
”And you must acknowledge,” the prior resumed, ”that great forbearance
and lenity have been shown towards you. But your infatuation has been such that
you have deliberately and persistently sought your own ruin. You have resisted
the wisest arguments, the gentlest persuasions, and that with an obstinacy which
time and discipline seem only to increase. And now at last, as another Auto-da-
fé may not be celebrated for some time, my Lord Vice-Inquisitor-General, justly
incensed at your contumacy, would fain have thrown you into one of the under-
ground dungeons, where, believe me, you would not live a month. But I have
interceded for you.”
”I thank your kindness, my lord. But I cannot see that it matters much how
you deal with me now. Sooner or later, in one form or other, it must be death;
and I thank God it can be no more.”
While a man might count twenty, the prior looked silently in that steadfast
sorrowful young face. Then he said,–
”My son, do not yield to despair; for I come to thee this day with a message
of hope. I have also made intercession for thee with the Supreme Council of the
Holy Office; and I have succeeded in obtaining from that august tribunal a great
and unusual grace.”
Carlos looked up, a sudden flush on his cheek. He hoped this unusual grace
might be permission to see some familiar face ere he died; but the prior’s next
 ccxix

words disappointed him. Alas! it was only the offer of escape from death on
terms that he might not accept. And yet such an offer really deserved the name
the prior gave it–a great and unusual grace. For, as has been already intimated, by
the laws of the Inquisition at that time in force, the man who had once professed
heretical doctrines, however sincerely he might have retracted them, was doomed
to die. His penitence would procure him the favour of absolution–the mercy of
the garotte instead of the stake; that was all.
The prior went on to explain to Carlos, that upon the ground of his youth,
and the supposition that he had been led into error by others, his judges had
consented to show him singular favour. ”Moreover,” he added, ”there are other
reasons for this course of action, upon which it would be needless, and might be
inexpedient, to enter at present; but they have their weight, especially with me.
For the preservation, therefore, both of your soul and your body–upon which I
take more compassion than you do yourself–I have, in the first place, obtained
permission to remove you to a more easy and more healthful confinement, where,
besides other favours, you will enjoy the great privilege of a companion, constant
intercourse with whom can scarcely fail to benefit you.”
Carlos thought this last a doubtful boon; but as it was kindly intended, he
was bound to be grateful. He thanked the prior accordingly; adding, ”May I be
permitted to ask the name of this companion?”
”You will probably find out ere long, if you conduct yourself so as to deserve
it,”–an answer Carlos found so enigmatical, that after several vain endeavours to
comprehend it, he gave up the task in despair, and not without some apprehen-
sion that his long imprisonment had dulled his perceptions. ”Amongst us he is
called Don Juan,” the prior continued. ”And this much I will tell you. He is a
very honourable person, who had many years ago the great misfortune to be
led astray by the same errors to which you cling with such obstinacy. God was
pleased, however, to make use of my poor instrumentality to lead him back to the
bosom of the Church. He is now a true and sincere penitent, diligent in prayer
and penance, and heartily detesting his former evil ways. It is my last hope for
you that his wise and faithful counsels may bring you to the same mind.”
Carlos did not particularly like the prospect. He feared that this vaunted
penitent would prove a noisy apostate, who would seek to obtain the favour of
the monks by vilifying his former associates. Nor, on the other hand, did he think
it honest to accept without protest kindnesses offered him on the supposition that
he might even yet be induced to recant. He said,–
”I ought to tell you, señor, that my mind will never change, God helping
me. Rather than lead you to imagine otherwise, I would go at once to the darkest
cell in the Triana. My faith is based on the Word of God, which can never be
overthrown.”
ccxx

”The penitent of whom I speak used such words as these, until God and
Our Lady opened his eyes. Now he sees all things differently. So will you, if God
is pleased to give you the inestimable benefit of his divine grace; for it is not of
him that willeth, nor of him that runneth, but of God that showeth mercy,” said
the Dominican, who, like others of his order, ingeniously managed to combine
strong predestinarian theories with the creed of Rome.
”That is most true, señor,” Carlos responded.
”But to resume,” said the prior; ”for I have yet more to say. Should you
be favoured with the grace of repentance, I am authorized to hold out to you a
well-grounded hope, that, in consideration of your youth, your life may even yet
be spared.”
”And then, if I were strong enough, I might live out ten or twenty years–like
the last two,” Carlos answered, not without a touch of bitterness.
”It is not so, my son,” returned the prior mildly. ”I cannot promise, in-
deed, under any circumstances, to restore you to the world. For that would be to
promise what could not be performed; and the laws of the Holy Office expressly
forbid us to delude prisoners with false hopes.[#] But this much I will say, your
restraint shall be rendered so light and easy, that your position will be preferable
to that of many a monk, who has taken the vows of his own free will. And if
you like the society of the penitent of whom I spoke anon, you shall continue to
enjoy it.”

[#] But these laws were often broken or evaded.

Carlos began to feel a somewhat unreasonable antipathy to this penitent, whose

face he had never seen. But what mattered the antipathies of a prisoner of the
Holy Office? He only said, ”Permit me again to thank you, my lord, for the kind-
ness you have shown me. Though my fellow-men cast out my name as evil, and
deny me my share of God’s free air and sky, and my right to live in his world, I
still take thankfully every word or deed of pity and gentleness they give me by
the way. For they know not what they do.”
The prior turned away, but turned back again a moment afterwards, to ask–
what for the credit of his humanity he ought to have asked a year before–”Do
you stand in need of any thing? or have you any request you wish to make?”
Carlos hesitated a moment. Then he said, ”Of things with in your power
to grant, my lord, there is but one that I care to ask. Two brethren of the Society
of Jesus visited me the day before yesterday. I spoke hastily to one of them, who
was named Fray Isodor, I think. Had I the opportunity, I should be glad to offer
 ccxxi

him my hand.”
”Now, of all mysterious things in heaven or earth,” said the prior, ”a heretic’s
conscience is the most difficult to comprehend. Truly you strain at a gnat and
swallow a camel. But as for Fray Isodor, you may rest content. For good and
sufficient reasons, he cannot visit you here. But I will repeat to him what you
have said. And I know well that his own tongue is a sharp weapon enough when
used in the defence of the faith.”
The prior withdrew; and shortly afterwards one of the monks appeared,
and silently conducted Carlos to a cell, or chamber, in the highest story of the
building. Like the cells in the Triana, it had two doors–the outer one secured by
strong bolts and bars, the inner one furnished with an aperture through which
food or other things could be passed.
But here the resemblance ceased. Carlos found himself, on entering, in
what seemed to him more like a hall than a cell; though, indeed, it must be re-
membered that his eye was accustomed to ten feet square. It was furnished as
comfortably as any room needed to be in that warm climate; and it was tolerably
clean, a small mercy which he noted with no small gratitude. Best perhaps of all,
it had a good window, looking down on the courtyard, but strongly barred, of
course. Near the window was a table, upon which stood an ivory crucifix, and a
picture of the Madonna and child.
But even before his eye took in all these objects, it turned to the penitent,
whose companionship had been granted him as so great a boon. He was utterly
unlike all that he had expected. Instead of a fussy, noisy pervert, he saw a serene
and stately old man, with long white hair and beard, and still, clearly chiselled,
handsome features. He was dressed in a kind of mantle, of a nondescript colour,
made like a monk’s cowl without the hood, and bearing two large St. Andrew’s
crosses, one on the breast and the other on the back; in fact, it was a compromised
sanbenito.
As Carlos entered, he rose (showing a tall, spare figure, slightly stooped),
and greeted his new companion with a courteous and elaborate bow, but did not
speak.
Shortly afterwards, food was handed through the aperture in the door; and
the half-starved prisoner from the Triana sat down with his fellow-captive to
what he esteemed a really luxurious repast. He had intended to be silent until
obliged to speak, but the aspect and bearing of the penitent quite disarranged his
preconceived ideas. During the meal, he tried once and again to open a conver-
sation by some slight courteous observation.
All in vain. The penitent did the honours of the table like a prince in dis-
guise, and never failed to bow and answer, ”Yes, señor,” or ”No, señor,” to every-
thing Carlos said. But he seemed either unable or unwilling to do more.
ccxxii

As the day wore on, this silence grew oppressive to Carlos; and he mar-
velled increasingly at his companion’s want of ordinary interest in him, or cu-
riosity about him. Until at length a probable solution of the mystery dawned
upon his mind. As he considered the penitent an agent of the monks deputed to
convert him, very likely the penitent, on his side, regarded him in the light of a
spy commissioned to watch his proceedings.
But this, if it was true at all, was only a small part of the truth. Carlos failed
to take into account the terrible effect of long years of solitude, crushing down
all the faculties of the mind and heart. It is told of some monastery, where the
rules were so severe that the brethren were only allowed to converse with each
other during one hour in the week, that they usually sat for that hour in perfect
silence: they had nothing to say. So it was with the penitent of the Dominican
convent. He had nothing to say, nothing to ask; curiosity and interest were dead
within him–dead long ago, of absolute starvation.
Yet Carlos could not help observing him with a strange kind of fascination.
His face was too still, too coldly calm, like a white marble statue; and yet it was
a noble face. It was, although not a thoughtful face, the face of a thoughtful man
asleep. It did not lack expressiveness, though it lacked expression. Moreover,
there was in it a look that awakened dim, undefined memories–shadowy things,
that fled away like ghosts whenever he tried to grasp them, yet persistently rose
again, and mingled with all his thoughts.
He told himself many times that he had never seen the man before. Was it,
then, an accidental likeness to some familiar face that so fixed and haunted him?
Certainly there was something which belonged to his past, and which, even while
it perplexed and baffled, strangely soothed and pleased him.
At each of the canonical hours (which were announced to them by the
tolling of the convent bells), the penitent did not fail to kneel before the crucifix,
and, with the aid of a book and a rosary, to read or repeat long Latin prayers, in a
half audible voice. He retired to rest early, leaving his fellow-prisoner supremely
happy in the enjoyment of his lamp and his Book of Hours. For it was two years
since the eyes of the once enthusiastic young scholar had rested on a printed page,
or since the kindly gleam of lamp or fire had cheered his solitude. The privilege of
refreshing his memory with the passages of Scripture contained in the Romish
book of devotion now appeared an unspeakable boon to him. And although,
accustomed as he was to a life of unbroken monotony, the varied impressions of
the day had produced extreme weariness of mind and body, it was near midnight
before he could prevail upon himself to close the volume, and lie down to rest on
the comfortable pallet prepared for him.
He was just falling asleep, when the midnight bell tolled out heavily. He
saw his companion rise, throw his mantle over his shoulders, and betake himself
 ccxxiii

to his devotions. How long these lasted he could not tell, for the stately kneel-
ing figure soon mingled with his dreams–strange dreams of Juan as a penitent,
dressed in a sanbenito, and with white hair and an old man’s face, kneeling de-
voutly before the altar in the church at Nuera, but reciting one of the songs of
the Cid instead of De Profundis.

XLI.
More about the Penitent.

”Ay, thus thy mother looked,

With such a sad, yet half-triumphant smile.
All radiant with deep meaning.”–Hemans

A slight incident, that occurred the following morning, partially broke down

the barrier of reserve between the two prisoners. After his early devotions, the
penitent laid aside his mantle, took up a besom made of long slips of cane, and
proceeded, with great deliberation and gravity, to sweep out the room. The con-
trast that his stately figure, his noble air, and the dignity of all his movements,
offered to the menial occupation in which he was engaged, was far too pathetic
to be ludicrous. Carlos could not but think that he wielded the lowly implement
as if it were a chamberlain’s staff of office, or a grand marshal’s baton. He him-
self was well accustomed to such tasks; for every prisoner of the Santa Casa, no
matter what his rank might be, was his own servant. And it spoke much for the
revolution that had taken place in his ideas and feelings, that though taught to
look on all servile occupations as ineffably degrading, he had never associated
a thought of degradation with anything laid upon him to do or to suffer as the
prisoner of Christ.
And yet he could not endure to see his aged and stately fellow-prisoner
thus occupied. He rose immediately, and earnestly entreated to be allowed to
relieve him of the task, pleading that all such duties ought to devolve on him as
the younger. At first the penitent resisted, saying that it was part of his penance.
But when Carlos continued to urge the point, he yielded; perhaps the more read-
ily because his will, like his other faculties, was weakened for want of exercise.
ccxxiv

Then, with more apparent interest than he had shown in any of his previous
proceedings, he watched the rather slow and difficult movements of his young
companion.
”You are lame, señor,” he said, a little abruptly, when Carlos, having finished
his work, sat down to rest.
”From the pulley,” Carlos answered quietly; and then his face beamed with
a sudden smile, for the secret of the Lord was with him, and he tasted the sweet,
strange joy that springs out of suffering borne for Him.
That look was the wire that drew an electric flash of memory from the
clouds that veiled the old man’s soul. What that sudden flash revealed was a
castle gate, at which stood a stately yet slender form robed in silk. In the fair
young face tears and smiles were contending; but a smile won the victory, as a
little child was held up, and made to kiss a baby-hand in farewell to its father.
In a moment all was gone; only a vague trouble and uneasiness remained,
accompanied by that strange sense of having seen or felt just the same thing be-
fore, with which we are most of us familiar. Accustomed to solitude, the penitent
spoke aloud, perchance unconsciously.
”Why did they bring you here?” he said, in a half fretful tone. ”You hurt
me. I have done very well alone all these years.”
”I am sorry to incommode you, señor,” returned Carlos. ”But I did not come
here of my own will; neither, unhappily, can I go. I am a prisoner, like yourself;
but, unlike you, I am a prisoner under sentence of death.”
For several minutes the penitent did not answer. Then he rose, and taking
a step or two towards the place where Carlos sat, gravely extended his hand. ”I
fear I have spoken uncourteously,” he said. ”So many years have passed since I
have conversed with my fellows, that I have well-nigh forgotten how I ought to
address them. Do me the favour, señor and my brother, to grant me your pardon.”
Carlos warmly assured him no offence had been given; and taking the of-
fered hand, he pressed it reverently to his lips. From that moment he loved his
fellow-prisoner in his heart.
There was an interval of silence, then the penitent of his own accord re-
sumed the conversation. ”Did I hear you say you are under sentence of death?”
he asked.
”I am so actually, though not formally,” Carlos replied. ”In the language of
the Holy Office, I am a professed impenitent heretic.”
”And you so young!”
”To be a heretic?”
”No; I meant so young to die.’
”Do I look young–even yet? I should not have thought it. To me the last
two years seem like a long life-time.”
 ccxxv

”Have you been two years, then, in prison? Poor boy! Yet I have been
here ten, fifteen, twenty years–I cannot tell how many. I have lost the account of
them.”
Carlos sighed. And such a life was before him, should he be weak enough
to surrender his hope. He said, ”Do you really think, señor, that these long years
of lonely suffering are less hard to bear than a speedy though violent death?”
”I do not think it matters, as to that,” was the penitent’s not very apposite
reply. In fact, his mind was not capable, at the time, of dealing with such a ques-
tion; so he turned from it instinctively. But in the meantime he was remembering,
every moment more and more clearly, that a duty had been laid upon him by the
authority to which his soul held itself in absolute subjection. And that duty had
reference to his fellow-prisoner.
”I am commanded,” he said at last, ”to counsel you to seek the salvation
of your soul, by returning to the bosom of the one true Catholic and Apostolic
Church, out of which there is no peace and no salvation.”
Carlos saw that he spoke by rote; that his words echoed the thought of an-
other, not his own. It seemed to him, under the circumstances, scarcely generous
to argue. He spared to put forth his mental powers against the aged and broken
man, as Juan in like case would have spared to use his strong right arm.
After a moment’s thought, he replied,–
”May I ask of your courtesy, señor and my father, to bear with me for a
little while, that I may frankly disclose to you my real belief?”
Appeal could never be made in vain to that penitent’s courtesy. No heresy,
that could have been proposed, would have shocked him half so much as the
supposition that one Castilian gentleman could be uncourteous to another, upon
any account. ”Do me the favour to state your opinions, señor,” he responded,
with a bow, ”and I will honour myself by giving them my best attention.”
Carlos was little used to language such as this. It induced him to speak
his mind more freely than he had been able to do for the last two years. But,
mindful of his experience with old Father Bernardo at San Isodro, he did not
speak of doctrines, he spoke of a Person. In words simple enough for a child to
understand, but with a heart glowing with faith and love, he told of what He was
when he walked on earth, of what He is at the right hand of the Father, of what
He has done and is doing still for every soul that trusts him.
Certainly the faded eye brightened; and something like a look of interest
began to dawn in the mournfully still and passive countenance. For a time Carlos
was aware that his listener followed every word, and he spoke slowly, on purpose
to allow him so to do. But then there came a change. The listening look passed
out of the eyes; and yet they did not wander once from the speaker’s face. The
expression of the whole countenance was gradually altered, from one of rather
ccxxvi

painful attention to the dreamy look of a man who hears sweet music, and gives
free course to the emotions it is calculated to awaken. In truth, the voice of Carlos
was sweet music in his fellow-captive’s ear; and he would willingly have sat thus
for ever, gazing at him and enjoying it.
Carlos thought that if this was their reverences’ idea of ”a satisfactory pen-
itent,” they were not difficult to satisfy. And he marvelled increasingly that so
astute a man as the Dominican prior should have put the task of his conversion
into such hands. For the piety so lauded in the penitent appeared to him mere
passiveness–the submission of a soul out of which all resisting forces had been
crushed. ”It is only life that resists,” he thought; ”the dead they can move whith-
ersoever they will.”
Intolerance always sets a premium on mental stagnation. Nay, it actually
produces it; it ”makes a desert, and calls it peace.” And what the Inquisition did
for the penitent, that it has done also for the penitent’s fair fatherland. Was the
resurrection of dead and buried faculties possible for him? Is such a resurrection
possible for it?
And yet, in spite of the deadness of heart and brain, which he doubted
not was the result of cruel suffering, Carlos loved his fellow-prisoner every hour
more and more. He could not tell why; he only knew that ”his soul was knit” to
his.
When Carlos, for fear of fatiguing him, brought his explanations to a close,
both relapsed into silence; and the remainder of the day passed without much
further conversation, but with a constant interchange of little kindnesses and
courtesies. The first sight that greeted the eyes of Carlos when he awoke the
next morning, was that of the penitent kneeling before the pictured Madonna,
his lips motionless, his hands crossed on his breast, and his face far more earnest
with feeling–it might be thought with devotion–than he had ever seen it yet.
Carlos was moved, but saddened. It grieved him sore that his aged fellow-
prisoner should pour out the last costly libation of love and trust left in his des-
olated heart before the shrine of that which was no god. And a great longing
awoke within him to lead back this weary and heavy-laden one to the only Be-
ing who could give him true rest.
”If, indeed, he is one of God’s chosen, of his loved and redeemed ones, he
will be led back,” thought Carlos, who had spent the past two years in thinking out
many things for himself. Certain aspects of truth, which may be either strong
cordials or rank poisons, as they are used, had grown gradually clear to him.
Opposed to the Dominican prior upon most subjects, he was at one with him
upon that of predestination. For he had need to be assured, when the great water
floods prevailed, that the chain which kept him from drifting away with them was
a strong one. And therefore he had followed it up, link by link, until he came at
 ccxxvii

last to that eternal purpose of God in which it was fast anchored. Since the day
that he first learned it, he had lived in the light of that great centre truth, ”I have
loved thee”–thee individually. But as he lay in the gloomy prison, sentenced to
die, something more was revealed to him. ”I have loved thee with an everlasting
love, therefore with loving-kindness have I drawn thee.” The value of this truth,
to him as to others, lay in the double aspect of that word ”everlasting;” its look
forward to the boundless future, as well as backward on the mysterious past. The
one was a pledge and assurance of the other. And now he was taking to his heart
the comfort it gave, for the penitent as well as for himself. But it made him, not
less, but more anxious to be God’s fellow-worker in bringing him back to the
truth.
In the meantime, however, he was quite mistaken as to the feelings with
which the old man knelt before the pictured Virgin and Child. His heart was
stirred by no mystic devotion to the Queen of Heaven, but by some very hu-
man feelings, which had long lain dormant, but which were now being gradually
awakened there. He was thinking not of heaven, but of earth, and of ”earth’s
warm beating joy and dole.” And what attracted him to that spot was only the rep-
resentation of womanhood and childhood, recalling, though far off and faintly,
the fair young wife and babe from whom he had been cruelly torn years and years
ago.
A little later, as the two prisoners sat over the bread and fruit that formed
their morning meal, the penitent began to speak more frankly than he had done
before. ”I was quite afraid of you, señor, when you first came,” he said.
”And perhaps I was not guiltless of the same feeling towards you,” Carlos
answered. ”It is no marvel. Companions in sorrow, such as we are, have great
power either to help or to hurt one another.”
”You may truly say that,” returned the penitent. ”In fact, I once suffered so
cruelly from the treachery of a fellow-prisoner, that it is not unnatural I should
be suspicious.”
”How was that, señor?”
”It was very long ago, soon after my arrest. And yet, not soon. For weary
months of darkness and solitude, I cannot tell how many, I held out–I mean to
say, I continued impenitent.”
”Did you?” asked Carlos with interest. ”I thought as much.”
”Do not think ill of me, I entreat of you, señor,” said the penitent anxiously.
”I am reconciled. I have returned to the bosom of the true Church, and I belong to
her. I have confessed and received absolution. I have even had the Holy Sacra-
ment; and if ill, or in danger of death, it is promised I shall receive ’su majestad’[#]
at any time. And I have abjured and detested all the heresies I learned from De
Valero.”
ccxxviii

[#] ”His Majesty,” the ordinary term applied by Spaniards to the Host.

”From De Valero? Did you learn from him?” The pale cheek of Carlos crimsoned
for a moment, then grew paler than before. ”Tell me, señor, if I may ask it, how
long have you been here?”
”That is just what I cannot tell. The first year stands out clearly; but all
the after years are like a dream to me. It was in that first year that the caitiff I
spoke of anon, who was imprisoned with me–you observe, señor, I had already
asked for reconciliation. It was promised me. I was to perform penance; to be
forgiven; to have my freedom. Pues, señor, I spoke to that man as I might to you,
freely and from my heart. For I supposed him a gentleman. I dared to say that
their reverences had dealt somewhat hardly with me, and the like. Idle words,
no doubt–idle and wicked. God knows, I have had time enough to repent them
since. For that man, my fellow-prisoner, he who knew what prison was, went
forth straightway and delated me to the Lords Inquisitors for those idle words–
God in heaven forgive him! And thus the door was shut upon me–shut–shut for
ever. Ay de mi! Ay de mi!”
Carlos heard but little of this speech. He was gazing at him with eager,
kindling eyes. ”Were there left behind in the world any that it wrung your heart
to part from?” he asked, in a trembling voice.
”There were. And since you came, their looks have never ceased to haunt
me. Why, I know not. My wife, my child!” And the old man shaded his face,
while in his eyes, long unused to tears, there rose a mist, like the cloud in form
as a man’s hand, that foretold the approach of the beneficent rain, which should
refresh and soften the thirsty soil, making all things young again.
”Señor,” said Carlos, trying to speak calmly, and to keep down the wild
tumultuous throbbing of his heart–”señor, a boon, I entreat of you. Tell me the
name you bore amongst men. It was a noble one, I know.”
”True. They promised to save it from disgrace. But it was part of my
penance not to utter it; if possible, to forget it.”
”Yet, this once. I do not ask idly–this once–have pity on me, and speak it,”
pleaded Carlos, with intense tremulous earnestness.
”Your face and your voice move me strangely; it seems to me that I could not
deny you anything. I am–I ought to say, I was–Don Juan Alvarez de Santillanos
y Meñaya.”
 ccxxix

Before the sentence was concluded, Carlos lay senseless at his feet.

XLII.
Quiet Days.

”I think that by-and-by all things

Which were perplexed a while ago
And life’s long, vain conjecturings,
Will simple, calm, and quiet grow,
Already round about me, some
August and solemn sunset seems
Deep sleeping in a dewy dome,
And bending o’er a world of dreams.”–Owen Meredith.

The penitent laid Carlos gently on his pallet (he still possessed a measure of

physical strength, and the worn frame was easy to lift); then he knocked loudly
on the door for help, as he had been instructed to do in any case of need. But
no one heard, or at least no one heeded him, which was not remarkable, since
during more than twenty years he had not, on a single occasion, thus summoned
his gaolers. Then, in utter ignorance what next to do, and in very great distress,
he bent over his young companion, helplessly wringing his hands.
Carlos stirred at last, and murmured, ”Where am I? What is it?” But even
before full consciousness returned, there came the sense, taught by the bitter,
experience of the last two years, that he must look within for aid–he could expect
none from any fellow-creature. He tried to recollect himself. Some bewildering,
awful joy had fallen upon him, striking him to the earth. Was he free? Was he
permitted to see Juan?
Slowly, very slowly, all grew clear to him. He half raised himself, grasped
the penitent’s hand, and cried aloud, ”My father?”
”Are you better, señor?” asked the old man with solicitude. ”Do me the
favour to drink this wine.”
”Father, my father! I am your son. I am Carlos Alvarez de Santillanos y
Meñaya. Do you not understand me, father?”
ccxxx

”I do not understand you, señor,” said the penitent, moving a little away
from him, with a mixture of dignified courtesy and utter amazement in his man-
ner strange to behold. ”Who is it that I have the honour to address?”
”O my father, I am your son–your very son Carlos!”
”I have never seen you till–ere yesterday.”
”That is quite true; and yet–”
”Nay, nay,” interrupted the old man; ”you are speaking wild words to me. I
had but one boy–Juan–Juan Rodrigo. The heir of the house of Alvarez de Meñaya
was always called Juan.”
”He lives. He is Captain Don Juan now, the bravest soldier, and the best,
truest-hearted man on earth. How you would love him! Would you could see
him face to face! Yet no; thank God you cannot.”
”My babe a captain in His Imperial Majesty’s army!” said Don Juan, in
whose thoughts the great Emperor was reigning still.
”And I,” Carlos continued, in a broken, agitated voice–”I, born when they
thought you dead–I, who opened my young eyes on this sad world the day God
took my mother home from all its sin and sorrow–I am brought here, in his mys-
terious providence, to comfort you, after your long dreary years of suffering.”
”Your mother! Did you say your mother? My wife, Costanza mia. Oh, let
me see your face!”
Carlos raised himself to a kneeling attitude, and the old man laid his hand
on his shoulder, and gazed at him long and earnestly. At length Carlos removed
the hand, and drawing it gently upwards, placed it on his head. ”Father,” he said,
”you will love your son? you will bless him, will you not? He has dwelt long
amongst those who hated him, and never spoke to him save in wrath and scorn,
and his heart pines for human love and tenderness.”
Don Juan did not answer for a while; but he ran his fingers through the
soft fine hair. ”So like hers,” he murmured dreamily. ”Thine eyes are hers too–
zarca.[#] Yes, yes; I do bless thee–But who am I to bless? God bless thee, my
son!”

[#] Blue; a word applied by the Spaniards only to blue eyes.

In the long, long silence that followed, the great convent bell rang out. It was
noon. For the first time for twenty years the penitent did not hear that sound.
Carlos heard it, however. Agitated as he was, he yet feared the conse-
quences that might follow should the penitent omit any part of the penance he
was bound by oath to perform. So he gently reminded him of it. ”Father–” (how
 ccxxxi

strangely sweet the name sounded!)–”father, at this hour you always recite the
penitential psalms. When you have finished, we will talk together. I have ten
thousand things to tell you.”
With the silent, unreasoning submission that had become a part of his na-
ture, the penitent obeyed; and, going to his usual station before the crucifix, be-
gan his monotonous task. The fresh life newly awakened in his heart and brain
was far from being strong enough, as yet, to burst the bonds of habit. And this
was well. Those bonds were his safeguard; but for their wholesome restraint,
mind or body, or both, might have been shattered by the tumultuous rush of new
thoughts and feelings.
But the familiar Latin words, repeated without thought, almost without
consciousness, soothed the weary brain like a slumber.
Meanwhile, Carlos thanked God with a full heart. Here, then–here, in the
dark prison, the very abode of misery–had God given him the desire of his heart,
fulfilled the longing of his early years. Now the wilderness and the solitary place
were glad; the desert rejoiced and blossomed as the rose. Now his life seemed
complete, its end answering its beginning; all its meaning lying clear and plain
before him. He was satisfied.
”Ruy, Ruy, I have found our father!–Oh, that I could but tell thee, my Ruy!”–
was the cry of his heart, though he forced his lips to silence. Nor could the tears
of joy, that sprang unbidden to his eyes, be permitted to overflow, since they
might perplex and trouble his fellow-captive–his father.
He had still a task to perform; and to that task his mind soon bent itself;
perhaps instinctively taking refuge in practical detail from emotions that might
otherwise have proved too strong for his weakened frame. He set himself to
consider how best he could revive the past, and make the present comprehensible
to the aged and broken man, without overpowering or bewildering him.
He planned to tell him, in the first instance, all that he could about Nuera.
And this he accomplished gradually, as he was able to bear the strain of conver-
sation. He talked of Dolores and Diego; described both the exterior and interior
of the castle; in fact, made him see again the scenes to which his eye had been
accustomed in past days. With special minuteness did he picture the little room
within the hall, both because it was less changed since his father’s time than the
others, and because it had been his favourite apartment ”And on the window,” he
said, ”there were some words, written with a diamond, doubtless by your hand,
my father. My brother and I used to read them in our childhood; we loved them,
and dreamed many a wondrous dream about them. Do you not remember them?”
But the old man shook his head.
Then Carlos began,–
ccxxxii

”’El Dorado–’”

”’Yo hé trovado.’

Yes, I remember now,” said Don Juan promptly.

”And the golden country you had discovered–was it not the truth as re-
vealed in Scripture?” asked Carlos, perhaps a little too eagerly.
The penitent mused a space; grew bewildered; said at last sorrowfully, ”I
know not. I cannot now recall what moved me to write those lines, or even when
I wrote them.”
In the next place, Carlos ventured to tell all he had heard from Dolores
about his mother. The fact of his wife’s death had been communicated to the
prisoner; but this was the only fragment of intelligence about his family that had
reached him during all these years. When she was spoken of, he showed emotion,
slight in the beginning, but increasing at every succeeding mention of her name,
until Carlos, who had at first been glad to find that the slumbering chords of
feeling responded to his touch, came at last to dread laying his hands upon them,
they were apt to moan so piteously. And once and again did his father say, gazing
at him with ever-increasing fondness, ”Thy face is hers, risen anew before me.”
Carlos tried hard to awaken Don Juan’s interest in his first-born. It is true
that he cherished an almost passionate love for Juanito the babe, but it was such
a love as we feel for children whom God has taken to himself in infancy. Juan
the youth, Juan the man, seemed to him a stranger, difficult to conceive of or to
care about. Yet, in time, Carlos did succeed in establishing a bond between the
long-imprisoned father and the brave, noble, free-hearted son, who was so like
what that father had been in his early manhood. He was never weary of telling of
Juan’s courage, Juan’s truthfulness, Juan’s generosity; often concluding with the
words, ”He would have been your favourite son, had you known him, my father.”
As time wore on, he won from his father’s lips the principal facts of his
own story. His past was like a picture from which the colouring, once bright and
varied, has faded away, leaving only the bare outlines of fact, and here and there
the shadows of pain still faintly visible. What he remembered, that he told his
son; but gradually, and often in very disjointed fragments, which Carlos carefully
pieced together in his thoughts, until he formed out of them a tolerably connected
whole.
Just three-and-twenty years before, on his arrival in Seville, in obedience
to what he believed to be a summons from the Emperor, the Conde de Nuera
had been arrested and thrown into the secret dungeons of the Inquisition. He
well knew his offence: he had been the friend and associate of De Valero; he had
read and studied the Scriptures; he had even advocated, in the presence of several
 ccxxxiii

witnesses, the doctrine of justification by faith alone. Nor was he unprepared to

pay the terrible penalty. Had he, at the time of his arrest, been led at once to
the rack or the stake, it is probable he would have suffered with a constancy that
might have placed his name beside that of the most heroic martyrs.
But he was allowed to wear out long months in suspense and solitude, and
in what his eager spirit found even harder to bear, absolute inaction. Excitement,
motion, stirring occupation for mind and body, had all his life been a necessity
to him. In the absence of these he pined–grew melancholy, listless, morbid. His
faith was genuine, and would have been strong enough to enable him for any-
thing in the line of his character; but it failed under trials purposely and sedulously
contrived to assail that character through its weak points.
When already worn out with dreary imprisonment, he was beset by argu-
ments, clever, ingenious, sophistical, framed by men who made argument the
business of their lives. Thus attacked, he was like a brave but unskilful man
fencing with adepts in the noble science. He knew he was right; and with the
Vulgate in his hand, he thought he could have proved it. But they assured him
they proved the contrary; nor could he detect a flaw in their syllogisms when he
came to examine them. If not convinced, then surely he ought to have been. They
conjured him not to let pride and vain-glory seduce him into self-opinionated ob-
stinacy, but to submit his private judgment to that of the Holy Catholic Church.
And they promised that he should go forth free, only chastised by a suitable and
not disgraceful penance, and by a pecuniary fine.
The hope of freedom burned in his heart like fire; and by this time there
was sufficient confusion in his brain for his will to find arguments there against
the voice of his conscience. So he yielded, though not without conflict, fierce
and bitter. His retractation was drawn up in as mild a form as possible by the
Inquisitors, and duly signed by him. No public act of penance was required, as
strict secrecy was to be observed in the whole transaction.
But the Inquisitor-General, Valdez, felt a well-grounded distrust of the pen-
itent’s sincerity, which was quickened perhaps by a desire to appropriate to the
use of the Holy Office a larger share of his possessions than the moderate fine
alluded to. Probably, too, he dreaded the disclosures that might have followed
had the Count been restored to the world. He had recourse, therefore, to an
artifice often employed by the Inquisitors, and seriously recommended by their
standard authorities. The ”fly” (for such traitors were common enough to have
a technical name as well as a recognized existence) reported that the Conde de
Nuera railed at the Holy Office, blasphemed the Catholic faith, and still adhered
in his heart to all his abominable heresies. The result was a sentence of perpetual
imprisonment.
Don Juan’s condition was truly pitiable then. Like Samson, he was shorn of
ccxxxiv

the locks in which his strength lay, bound hand and foot, and delivered over to his
enemies. Because he could not bear perpetual imprisonment he had renounced
his faith, and denied his Lord. And now, without the faith he had renounced,
without the Lord he had denied, he must bear it. It told upon him as it would
have told on nine men out of ten, perhaps on ninety-nine out of a hundred. His
mind lost its activity, its vigour, its tone. It became, in time, almost a passive
instrument in the hands of others.
And then the Dominican monk, Fray Ricardo, brought his powerful intel-
lect and his strong will to bear upon him. He had been sent by his superiors (he
was not prior until long afterwards) to impart the terrible story of her husband’s
arrest to the Lady of Nuera, with secret instructions to ascertain whether her
own faith had been tampered with. In his fanatical zeal he performed a cruel
task cruelly. But he had a conscience, and its fault was not insensibility. When
he heard the tale of the lady’s death, a few days after his visit, he was profoundly
affected. Accustomed, however, to a religion of weights and balances, it came
naturally to him to set one thing against another, by way of making the scales
even. If he could be the means of saving the husband’s soul, he would feel, to say
the least, much more comfortable about his conduct to the wife.
He spared no pains upon the task he had set himself; and a measure of
success crowned his efforts. Having first reduced the mind of the penitent to a
cold, blank calm, agitated by no wave of restless thought or feeling, he had at
length the delight of seeing his own image reflected there, as in a mirror. He
mistook that spectral reflection for a reality, and great was his triumph when,
day by day, he saw it move responsive to every motion of his own.
But the arrest of his penitent’s son broke in upon his self-satisfaction. It
seemed as though a dark doom hung over the family, which even the father’s
repentance was powerless to avert. He wished to save the youth, and he had
tried to do it after his fashion; but his efforts only resulted in bringing up before
him the pale accusing face of the Lady of Nuera, and in interesting him more than
he cared to acknowledge in the impenitent heretic, who seemed to him such a
strange mixture of gentleness and obstinacy. Surely the father’s influence would
prevail with the son, originally a much less courageous and determined character,
and now already wrought upon by a long period of loneliness and suffering.
Perhaps also–monk, fanatic, and inquisitor though he was–the pleasant-
ness of trying the experiment, and cheering thereby the last days of the pious
and docile penitent, his own especial convert, weighed a little with him; for he
was still a man. Moreover, like many hard men, he was capable of great kindness
towards those whom he liked. And, with the full approbation of his conscience,
he liked his penitent; whilst, rather in spite of his conscience, he liked his peni-
tent’s son.
 ccxxxv

Carlos did not trouble himself overmuch about the prior’s motives. He
was too content in his new-found joy, too engrossed in his absorbing task–the
concern and occupation of his every hour, almost of his every moment. He was
as one who toils patiently to clear away the moss and lichen that has grown over
a memorial stone; that he may bring out once more, in all their freshness, the
precious words engraven upon it. The inscription was there, and there it had
been always (so he told himself); all that he had to do was to remove that which
covered and obscured it.
He had his reward. Life returned, first through love for him, to the heart;
then, through the heart, to the brain. Not rapidly and with tingling pain, as it
returns to a frozen limb, but gradually and insensibly, as it comes to the dry trees
in spring.
But, in the trees, life shows itself first in the extremities; it is slowest in
appearing in those parts which are really nearest the sources of all life. So the
penitent’s interest in other subjects, and his care for them, revived; yet in one
thing, the greatest of all, these seemed lacking still. There did not return the spir-
itual light and life, which Carlos could not doubt he had enjoyed in past days.
Sometimes, it is true, he would startle his son by unexpected reminiscences, dis-
jointed fragments of the truth for which he had suffered so much. He would
occasionally interrupt Carlos, when he was repeating to him passages from the
Testament, to tell him ”something Don Rodrigo said about that, when he ex-
pounded the Epistle to the Romans.” But these were only like the rich flowers
that surprise the explorer amidst the tangled weeds of a waste ground, showing
that a carefully tended garden has flourished there once–very long ago.
”It is not that I desire him above all things to hold this doctrine or that,”
thought Carlos; ”I desire him to find Christ again, and to rejoice in his love, as
doubtless he did in the old days. And surely he will, since Christ found him–chose
him for his own even before the foundation of the world.”
But in order to bring this about, perhaps it was necessary that the faded
colours of his soul should be steeped in the strong and bitter waters of a great
agony, that they might regain thereby their full freshness.

XLIII.
El Dorado Found Again.
ccxxxvi

”And every power was used, and every art,

To bend to falsehood one determined heart,
Assailed, in patience it received the shock,
Soft as the wave, unbroken as the rock.”–Crabbe

”What are you doing, my father?” Carlos asked one morning.

Don Juan had produced from some private receptacle a small ink-horn, and
was moistening its long-dried contents with water.
”I was thinking that I should like to write down somewhat,” he said.
”But whereto will ink serve us without pen and paper?”
The penitent smiled; and presently pulled out from within his pallet a little
faded writing-book, and a pen that looked–what it was–more than twenty years
old.
”Long ago,” he said, ”I used to be weary, weary of sitting idle all the day; so
I bribed one of the lay brothers with my last ducat to bring me this, only that I
might set down therein whatever happened, for pastime.”
”May I read it, my father?”
”And welcome, if thou wilt;” and he gave the book into the hand of his son.
”At first, as you see, there be many things written therein. I cannot tell what
they are now; I have forgotten them all;–but I suppose I thought them, or felt
them–once. Or sometimes the brethren would come to visit me, and talk, and
afterwards I would write what they said. But by degrees I set down less and less
in it. Many days passed in which I wrote nothing, because nothing was to write.
Nothing ever happened.”
Carlos was soon absorbed in the perusal of the little book. The records
of his father’s earlier prison life he scanned with great interest and with deep
emotion; but coming rather suddenly upon the last entry, he could not forbear a
smile. He read aloud:
”’A feast day. Had a capon for dinner, and a measure of red wine.’”
”Did I not judge well,” asked the father, ”that it was time to give over writ-
ing, when I could stoop low enough to record such trifles? Yes; I think I can
recall the bitterness of heart with which I laid the book aside. I despised myself
for what I wrote therein; and yet I had nothing else to write–would never have
anything else, I thought. But now God has given me my son. I will write that
down.”
Looking up, after a little while, from his self-imposed task, he asked, with
an air of perplexity,–
”But when was it? How long is it since you came here, Carlos?”
Carlos in his turn was perplexed. The quiet days had glided on swiftly and
 ccxxxvii

noiselessly, leaving no trace behind.

”To me it seems to have been all one long Sabbath,” he said. ”But let me
think. The summer heats had not come; I suppose it must have been March or
April–April, perhaps. I remember thinking I had been just two years in prison.”
”And now it is growing cool again. I suppose it may have been four
months–six months ago. What think you?”
Carlos thought it nearer the latter period than the former.
”I believe we have been visited six times by the brethren,” he said. ”No;
only five times.”
These visits of inspection had been made by command of the prior–himself
absent from Seville on important business during most of the time–and the result
had been duly reported to him. The monks to whom the duty had been deputed
were aged and respectable members of the community; in fact, the only persons
in the monastery who were acquainted with Don Juan’s real name and history.
It was their opinion that matters were progressing favourably with the prison-
ers. They found the penitent as usual–docile, obedient, submissive, only more
inclined to converse than formerly; and they thought the young man very gentle
and courteous, grateful for the smallest kindness, and ready to listen attentively,
and with apparent interest, to everything that was said.
For more definite results the prior was content to wait: he had great faith
in waiting. Still, even to him six months seemed long enough for the experiment
he was trying. At the end of that time–which happened to be the day after the
conversation just related–he himself made a visit to the prisoners.
Both most warmly expressed their gratitude for the singular grace he had
shown them. Carlos, whose health had greatly improved, said that he had not
dreamed so much earthly happiness could remain for him still.
”Then, my son,” said the prior, ”give evidence of thy gratitude in the only
way possible to thee, or acceptable to me. Do not reject the mercy still offered
thee by Holy Church. Ask for reconciliation.”
”My lord,” replied Carlos, firmly, ”I can but repeat what I told you six
months agone–that is impossible.”
The prior argued, expostulated, threatened–in vain. At length he reminded
Carlos that he was already condemned to death–the death of fire; and that he
was now putting from him his last chance of mercy. But when he still remained
steadfast, he turned away from him with an air of deep disappointment, though
more in sorrow than in anger, as one pained by keen and unexpected ingratitude.
”I speak to thee no more,” he said. ”I believe there is in thy father’s heart
some little spark, not only of natural feeling but of the grace of God. I address
myself to him.”
Whether Don Juan had never fully comprehended the statement of Carlos
ccxxxviii

that he was under sentence of death, or whether the tide of emotion caused by
finding in him his own son had swept the terrible fact from his remembrance, it
is impossible to say; but it certainly came to him, from the lips of the prior, as a
dreadful, unexpected blow. So keen was his anguish that Fray Ricardo himself
was moved; and the rather, because it was impossible to the aged and broken
man to maintain the outward self-restraint a younger and stronger person might
have done.
More touched, at the moment, by his father’s condition than by all the
horrors that menaced himself, Carlos came to his side, and gently tried to soothe
him.
”Cease!” said the prior, sternly. ”It is but mockery to pretend sympathy with
the sorrow thine own obstinacy has caused. If in truth thou lovest him, save him
this cruel pain. For three days still,” he added, ”the door of grace shall stand open
to thee. After that term has expired, I dare not promise thy life.” Then turning to
the agitated father–”If you can make this unhappy youth hear the voice of divine
and human compassion,” he said, ”you will save both his body and his soul alive.
You know how to send me a message. God comfort you, and incline his heart to
repentance.” And with these words he departed, leaving Carlos to undergo the
sharpest trial that had come upon him since his imprisonment.
All that day, and the greater part of the night that followed it, the two wills
strove together. Prayers, tears, entreaties, seemed to the agonized father to fall on
the strong heart of his son like drops of rain on the rock. He did not know that all
the time they were falling on that heart like sparks of living fire; for Carlos, once
so weak, had learned now to endure pain, both of mind and body, with brow and
lip that ”gave no sign.” Passing tender was the love that had sprung up between
those two, so strangely brought together. And now Carlos, by his own act, must
sever that sweet bond–must leave his newly-found father in a solitude doubly
terrible, where the feeble lamp of his life would soon go out in obscure darkness.
Was not this bitterness enough, without the anguish of seeing that father bow
his white head before him, and teach his aged lips words of broken, passionate
entreaty that his son–his one earthly treasure–would not forsake him thus?
”My father,” Carlos said at last, as they sat together in the moonlight, for
their light had gone out unheeded–”my father, you have often told me that my
face is like my mother’s.”
”Ay de mi!” moaned the penitent–”and truly it is. Is that why it must leave
me as hers did? Ay de mi, Costanza mia! Ay de mi, my son!”
”Father, tell me, I pray you, to escape what anguish of mind or body would
you set your seal to a falsehood told to her dishonour?”
”Boy, how can you ask? Never!–nothing could force me to that.” And from
the faded eye there shot a gleam almost like the fire of old days.
 ccxxxix

”Father, there is One I love better than ever you loved her. Not to save
myself, not even to save you, from this bitter pain, can I deny him or dishonour
his name. Father, I cannot!–Though this is worse than the torture,” he added.
The anguish of the last words pierced to the very core of the old man’s
heart. He said no more; but he covered his face, and wept long and passionately,
as a man weeps whose heart is broken, and who has no longer any power left
him to struggle against his doom.
Their last meal lay untasted. Some wine had formed part of it; and this
Carlos now brought, and, with a few gentle, loving words, offered to his father.
Don Juan put it aside, but drew his son closer, and looked at him in the moonlight
long and earnestly.
”How can I give thee up?” he murmured.
As Carlos tried to return his gaze, it flashed for the first time across his
mind that his father was changed. He looked older, feebler, more wan than he
had done at his coming. Was the newly-awakened spirit wearing out the body?
He said,–
”It may be, my father, that God will not call you to the trial. Perhaps months
may elapse before they arrange another Auto.”
How calmly he could speak of it;–for he had forgotten himself. Courage,
with him, always had its root in self-forgetting love.
Don Juan caught at the gleam of hope, though not exactly as Carlos in-
tended. ”Ay, truly,” he said, ”many things may happen before then.”
”And nothing can happen save at the will of Him who loves and cares for
us. Let us trust him, my beloved father. He will not allow us to be tempted above
that we are able to bear. For he is good–oh, how good!–to the soul that seeketh
him. Long ago I believed that; but since he has honoured me to suffer for him,
once and again have I proved it true, true as life or death. Father, I once thought
the strongest thing on earth–that which reached deepest into our nature–was
pain. But I have lived to learn that his love is stronger, his peace is deeper, than
all pain.”
With many such words–words of faith, and hope, and tenderness–did he
soothe his weary, broken-hearted father. And at last, though not till towards
morning, he succeeded in inducing him to lie down and seek the rest he so sorely
needed.
Then came his own hour; the hour of bitter, lonely conflict. He had grown
accustomed to the thought, to the expectation, of a silent, peaceful death within
the prison walls. He had hoped, nay, certainly believed, that in the slow hours
of some quiet day or night, undistinguished from other days and nights, God’s
messenger would steal noiselessly to his gloomy cell, and heart and brain would
thrill with rapture at the summons, ”The Master calleth thee.”
ccxl

Now, indeed, it was true that the Master called him. But he called him to go
to Him through the scornful gaze of ten thousand eyes; through reproach, and
shame, and mockery; the hideous zamarra and carroza; the long agony of the
Auto, spun out from daybreak till midnight; and, last of all, through the torture
of the doom of fire. How could he bear it? Sharp were the pangs of fear that
wrung his heart, and dread was the struggle that followed.
It was over at last. Raising to the cold moonlight a steadfast though sor-
rowful face, Carlos murmured audibly, ”What time I am afraid I will put my trust
in thee. Lord, I am ready to go with thee, whithersoever thou wilt; only–with
thee.”
He woke, late the following morning, from the sleep of exhaustion to the
painful consciousness of something terrible to come upon him. But he was soon
roused from thoughts of self by seeing his father kneel before the crucifix, not
quietly reciting his appointed penance, but uttering broken words of prayer and
lamentation, accompanied by bitter weeping. As far as he could gather, the bur-
den of the cry was this, ”God help me! God forgive me! I have lost it!” Over and
over again did he moan those piteous words, ”I have lost it!” as if they were the
burden of some dreary song. They seemed to contain the sum of all his sorrow.
Carlos, yearning to comfort him, still did not feel that he could interrupt
him then. He waited quietly until they were both ready for their usual reading
or repetition of Scripture; for Carlos, every morning, either read from the Book
of Hours to his father, or recited passages from memory, as suited his inclination
at the time.
He knew all the Gospel of John by heart. And this day he began with those
blessed words, dear in all ages to the tried and sorrowing, ”Let not your heart be
troubled: ye believe in God, believe also in me. In my Father’s house are many
mansions: if it were not so, I would have told you. I go to prepare a place for
you.” He continued without pause to the close of the sixteenth chapter, ”These
things I have spoken unto you, that in me ye might have peace. In the world ye
shall have tribulation: but be of good cheer; I have overcome the world.”
Then once more Don Juan uttered that cry of bitter pain, ”Ay de mi! I have
lost it!”
Carlos thought he understood him now. ”Lost that peace, my father?” he
questioned gently.
The old man bowed his head sorrowfully.
”But it is in Him. ’In me ye might have peace.’ And Him you have,” said
Carlos.
Don Juan drew his hand across his brow, was silent for a few moments, then
said slowly, ”I will try to tell you how it is with me. There is one thing I could do,
even yet; one path left open to my footsteps in which none could part us.–What
 ccxli

hinders my refusing to perform my penance, and boldly taking my stand beside

thee, Carlos?”
Carlos started, flushed, grew pale again with emotion. He had not dreamed
of this, and his heart shrank from it in terror. ”My beloved father!” he exclaimed
in a trembling voice. ”But no–God has not called you. Each one of us must wait
to see his guiding hand.”
”Once I could have done it bravely, nay, joyfully,” said the penitent. ”Not
now.” And there was a silence.
At last Don Juan resumed, ”My boy, thy courage shames my weakness.
What hast thou seen, what dost thou see, that makes this thing possible to thee?”
”My father knows. I see Him who died for me, who rose again for me, who
lives at the right hand of God to intercede for me.”
”For me?”
”Yes; it is this thought that gives strength and peace.”
”Peace–which I have lost for ever.”
”Not for ever, my honoured father. No; you are his, and of such it is written,
’Neither shall any man pluck them out of my hand.’ Though your tired hand has
relaxed its grasp of him, his has never ceased to hold you, and never can cease.”
”I was at peace and happy long ago, when I believed, as Don Rodrigo said,
that I was justified by faith in him.”
”Once justified, justified for ever,” said Carlos.
”Don Rodrigo used to say so too, but–I cannot understand it now,” and a
look of perplexity passed over his face.
Carlos spoke more simply. ”No! Then come to him now, my father, just
as if you had never come before. You may not know that you are justified; you
know well that you are weary and heavy laden. And to such he says, ’Come.’ He
says it with outstretched arms, with a heart full of love and tenderness. He is as
willing to save you from sin and sorrow as you are this hour to save me from
pain and death. Only, you cannot, and he can.”
”Come–that is–believe?”
”It is believe, and more. Come, as your heart came out to me, and mine to
you, when we knew the great bond between us. But with far stronger trust and
deeper love; for he is more than son or father. He fulfils all relationships, satisfies
all wants.”
”But then, what of those long years in which I forgot him!”
”They were but adding to the sum of sin; sin that he has pardoned, has
washed away for ever in his blood.”
At that point the conversation dropped, and days passed ere it was re-
newed. Don Juan was unusually silent; very tender to his son, making no com-
plaint, but often weeping quietly. Carlos thought it best to leave God to deal with
ccxlii

him directly, so he only prayed for him and with him, repeated precious Scripture
words, and sometimes sang to him the psalms and hymns of the Church.
But one evening, to the affectionate ”Good-night” always exchanged by the
son and father with the sense that many more might not be left to them, Don Juan
added, ”Rejoice with me, my son; for I think that I have found again the thing
that I lost–

’El Dorado
Yo hé trovada.’”

XLIV.

One Prisoner Set Free.

”All was ended now, the hope and the fear, and the sorrow;
All the aching of heart, the restless unsatisfied longing,
All the dull deep pain, and constant anguish of patience.”–Longfellow.

The winter rain was pouring down in a steady continuous torrent It was long

since a gleam of sunshine had come through the windows of the prison-room.
But Don Juan Alvarez did not miss the sunlight. For he lay on his pallet, weak
and ill, and the only sight he greatly cared to look upon was the loving face that
was ever beside him.
It is possible, by means of the embalmer’s art, to enable buried forms to
retain for ages a ghastly outward similitude to life. Tombs have been opened, and
kings found therein clothed in their royal robes, stern and stately, the sceptre in
their cold hands, and no trace of the grave and its corruption visible upon them.
But no sooner did the breath of the upper air and the finger of light touch them
than they crumbled away, silently and rapidly, and dust returned to dust again.
Thus, buried in the chill dark tomb of his seclusion, Don Juan might have lived
for years–if life it could be called–or, at least, he might have lingered on in the
outward similitude of life. But Carlos brought in light and air upon him. His mind
and heart revived; and, just in proportion, his physical nature sank. It proved too
weak to bear these powerful influences. He was dying.
 ccxliii

Tender and thoughtful as a woman, Carlos, who himself knew so well all
the bitterness of unpitied pain and sickness, ministered to his father’s wants. But
he did not request their gaolers to afford him any medical aid, though, had he
done so, it would have been readily granted.
He had good reason for seeking no help from man. The daily penance
was neglected now; the rosary lay untold; and never again would ”Ave Maria
Sanctissima” pass the lips of Don Juan Alvarez. Therefore it was that Carlos,
after much thought and prayer, said quietly to him one day, ”My father, are you
afraid to lie here, in God’s hands, and in his alone, and to take whatever he pleases
to send us?”
”I am not afraid.”
”Do you desire any help they can give, either for your soul or for your
body?”
”No,” said the Conde de Nuera, with something like the spirit of other days.
”I would not confess to them; for Christ is my only priest now. And they should
not anoint me while I retained my consciousness.”
A look of resolution, strange to see, passed over the gentle face of Carlos.
”It is well said, my father,” he responded. ”And, God helping me, I will let no man
trouble you.”
”My son,” said Don Juan one evening, as Carlos sat beside him in the twi-
light, ”I pray you, tell me a little more of those who learned to love the truth since
I walked amongst men. For I would fain be able to recognize them when we meet
in heaven.”
Then Carlos told him, not indeed for the first time, but more fully than
ever before, the story of the Reformed Church in Spain. Almost every name that
he mentioned has come down to us surrounded by the mournful halo of martyr
glory. With special reverential love, he told of Don Carlos de Seso, of Losada, of
D’Arellano, and of the heroic Juliano Hernandez, who, as he believed, was still
waiting for his crown. ”For him,” he said, ”I pray even yet; for the others I can
only thank God, Surely,” he added, after a pause, ”God will remember the land for
which these, his faithful martyrs, prayed and toiled and suffered! Surely he will
hear their voices, that cry under the altar, not for vengeance, but for forgiveness
and mercy; and one day he will return and repent, and leave a blessing behind
him?”
”I know not,” said the dying man despondingly. ”The Spains have had their
offer of God’s truth, and have rejected it. What is there that is said, somewhere
in the Scriptures, about Noah, Daniel, and Job?”
Carlos repeated the solemn words, ”’Though Noah, Daniel, and Job were in
it, as I live, saith the Lord God, they shall deliver neither son nor daughter; they
shall but deliver their own souls by their righteousness.’ Do you fear that such a
ccxliv

terrible doom has gone forth over our land, my father? I dare to hope otherwise.
For it is not the Spains that have rejected the truth. It is the Inquisition that is
crushing it out.”
”But the Spains must answer for its deeds, since they consent to them. They
heed not. There are brave men enough, with weapons in their hands,” said the
soldier of former days, with a momentary return to old habits of thought and
feeling.
”Yet God may give our land another trial,” Carlos continued. ”His truth is
sometimes offered twice to individuals, why not to nations?”
”True; it was offered twice to me, praised be his name.” After an interval of
silence, he resumed, ”My son always speaks of others, never of himself. Not yet
have I learned how it was that you came to receive the Word of God so readily
from Juliano.”
Then in the dark, with his father’s hand in his, Carlos told, for the first and
last time, the true story of his life.
Before he had gone far, Don Juan started, half-raised him self, and ex-
claimed in surprise, ”What, and you!–you too–once loved?”
”Ay, and bitter as the pain has been, I am glad now of all except the sin. I
am glad that I have tasted earth’s very best and sweetest; that I know how the
wine is red and gives its colour in the cup of life he honours me to put aside for
him.” His voice was low and full of feeling as he said this. Presently he resumed.
”But the sin, my father! Especially my treachery in heart to Juan; that rankled
long and stung deeply. Juan, my brave, generous brother, who would have struck
down any man who dared to hint that I could do, or think, aught dishonourable!
He never knew it; and had he known it, he would have forgiven me; but I could
not forgive myself. I do not think the self-scorn passed away until–that which
happened after I had been nigh a year in prison. O my father, if God had not
interposed to save me by withholding me from that crime, I shudder to think
what my life might have been. I am persuaded I should have sunk lower, lower,
and ever lower. Perhaps, even, I might have ended in the purple and fine linen,
and the awful pomp and luxury of the oppressors and persecutors of the saints.”
”Nay,” said Don Juan, ”that would never have been possible to thee, Carlos.
But there is a question I have often longed to ask thee. Does Juan, my Juan
Rodrigo, know and love the Word of God?”
He had asked that question before; but Carlos had contrived, with tact and
gentleness, to evade the answer. Up to this hour he had not dared to tell his
father the truth upon this important subject. Besides the terrible risk that in some
moment of fear or forgetfulness the prior or his agents might draw an incautious
word from the old man’s lips, there was a haunting dread of listeners at key-holes,
or secret apertures, quite natural in one who knew the customs of the Holy Office.
 ccxlv

But now he bent down close to the dying man, and spoke to him in a long earnest
whisper.
”Thank God,” murmured Don Juan. ”I would have no earthly wish unsatis-
fied now–if only you were safe. But still,” he added, ”it seemeth somewhat hard
to me that Juan should have all, and you nothing.”
”I nothing!” Carlos exclaimed; and had not the room been in darkness his
father would have seen that his eye kindled, and his whole countenance lighted
up. ”My father, mine has been the best lot, even for earth. Were it to do again, I
would not change the last two years for the deepest love, the brightest hope, the
fairest joy life has to offer. For the Lord himself has been the portion of my cup,
my inheritance in the land of the living.”
After a silence, he continued, ”Moreover, and beside all, I have thee, my
father. Therefore to me it is a joy to think that my beloved brother has also
something precious. How he loved her! But the strangest thing of all, as I ponder
over it now, is the fulfilment of our childhood’s dream. And in me, the weak one
who deserved nothing, not in Juan the hero who deserved everything. It is the
lame who has taken the prey. It is the weak and timid Carlos who has found our
father.”
”Weak–timid?” said Don Juan, with an incredulous smile. ”I marvel who
ever joined such words with the name of my heroic son. Carlos, have we any
wine?”
”Abundance, my father,” answered Carlos, who carefully treasured for his
father’s use all that was furnished for both of them. Having given him a little, he
asked, ”Do you feel pain to-night!”
”No–no pain. Only weary; always weary.”
”I think my beloved father will soon be where the weary are at rest”–”and
where the wicked cease from troubling,” he added mentally, not aloud.
He would fain have dropped the conversation then, fearing to exhaust his
father’s strength. But the sick man’s restlessness was soothed by his talk. Ere
long he questioned, ”Is it not near Christmas now?”
Well did Carlos know that it was; and keenly did he dread the return of
the season which ought to bring ”peace upon earth.” For it would certainly bring
the prisoners a visit; and almost certainly there would be the offer of special
privileges to the penitent, perhaps sacramental consolation, perhaps permission
to hear mass. He shuddered to think what a refusal to avail himself of these
indulgences might entail. And once and again did he breathe the fervent prayer,
that whatever came upon him, neither violence, insult, nor reproach might be
allowed to touch his father.
Moreover, amongst the great festivities of the season, it was more than
likely that a solemn Auto-da-fé might find place. But this was a secret inner
ccxlvi

thought, not often put into words, even to himself. Only, if it were God’s will to
call his father first!
”It is December,” he said, in answer to Don Juan’s question; ”but I have lost
account of the day. It may be perhaps the twelfth or fourteenth. Shall I recite the
evening psalms for the twelfth, ’Te dicet hymnus’?”
As he did so, the old man fell asleep, which was what he desired. Half in the
sleep of exhaustion, half in weary restlessness, the next day and the next night
wore on. Once only did Don Juan speak connectedly.
”I think you will see my mother soon,” said Carlos, as he bore to his lips
wine mingled with water.
”True,” breathed the dying man; ”but I am not thinking of that now. Far
better–I shall see Christ.”
”My father, are you still in peace, resting on him?”
”In perfect peace.”
And Carlos said no more. He was content; nay, he was exceeding glad. He
who in all things will have the pre-eminence, had indeed taken his rightful place
in the heart of the dying, when even the strong earthly love that was ”twisted
with the strings of life” had paled before the love of him.
And in the last watch of the night, when the day was breaking, he sent
his angel to loose the captive’s bonds. So gentle was the touch that freed him,
that he who sat holding his hand in his, and watching his face as we watch the
last conscious looks of our beloved, yet knew not the exact moment when the
Deliverer came. Carlos never said ”He is going!” he only said ”He is gone!” And
then he kissed the pale lips and closed the sightless eyes–in peace.
None ever thanked God for bringing back their beloved from the gates of
the grave more fervently than Carlos thanked him that hour for so gently opening
unto his those gates that ”no man can shut.” ”My father, thy rest is won!” he said,
as he gazed on the calm and noble countenance. ”They cannot touch thee now.
Not all the malice of men or of fiends can give one pang. A moment since so
fearfully in their power; now so completely beyond it! Thank God! thank God!”
The rain was over, and ere long the sun arose, in his royal robes of crimson
and purple and gold–to the prisoner from the dungeon of the Triana an ever fresh
wonder and joy. Yet not even that sight could win his eyes to-day from the deeper
beauty of the still and solemn face before him. And as the soft crimson light fell
on the pallid cheek and brow, the watcher murmured, with calm thankfulness,–
 ccxlvii

”’To him sun and daylight are as nothing, for he sees the glory of God.’”

XLV.
Triumphant.

”For ever with the Lord!

Amen! to let it be!”–Montgomery.

Carlos was still sitting beside that couch, with scarcely more sense of time than

if he had been already where time exists no longer, when the door of his cell was
opened to admit two distinguished visitors. First came the prior; then another
member of the Table of the Inquisition.
Carlos rose up from beside his dead, and said calmly, addressing the prior,
”My father is free!”
”How? what is this?” cried Fray Ricardo, his brow contracting with sur-
prise.
Carlos stood aside, allowing him to approach and look. With real concern
in his stern countenance, he stooped for a few moments over the motionless form.
Then he asked,–
”But why was I not summoned? Who was with him when he departed?”
”I,–his son,” said Carlos.
”But who besides thee?” Then, in a higher key, and with more hurried
intonation,–”Who gave him the last rites of the Church?”
”He did not receive them, my lord, for he did not desire them. He said that
Christ was his priest; that he would not confess; and that they should not anoint
him while he retained consciousness.”
The Dominican’s face grew white with anger, even to the lips.
”Liar!” he cried, in a voice of thunder. ”How darest thou tell me that he
for whom I watched, and prayed, and toiled, after years and years of faithful
penance, has gone down at last, unanointed and unassoiled, to hell with Luther
and Calvin?”
”I tell thee that he has gone home in peace to his Father’s house.”
”Blasphemer! liar, like thy father the devil! But I understand all now. Thou,
ccxlviii

in thy hatred of the Faith, didst refuse to summon help–didst let his spirit pass
without the aid and consolations of the Church. Murderer of his soul–thy father’s
soul! Not content even with that, thou canst stand there and slander his memory,
bidding us believe that he died in heresy! But that, at least, is false–false as thine
own accursed creed!”
”It is true; and you believe it,” said Carlos, in calm, clear, quiet tones, that
contrasted strangely with the Dominican’s outburst of unwonted rage.
And the prior did believe it–there was the sharpest sting. He knew per-
fectly well that the condemned heretic was incapable of falsehood: on a mat-
ter of fact he would have received his testimony more readily than that of the
stately ”Lord Inquisitor” now standing by his side. In the momentary pause that
followed, that personage came forward and looked upon the face of the dead.
”If there be really any proof that he died in heresy,” he said, ”he ought to
be proceeded against according to the laws of the Holy Office provided for such
cases.”
Carlos smiled–smiled in calm triumph.
”You cannot hurt him now,” he said. ”Look there, señor. The King immortal,
invisible, has set his own signet upon that brow, that the decree may not be
reversed nor the purpose changed concerning him.”
And the peace of the dead face seemed to have passed into the living face
that had gazed on it so long. Carlos was as really beyond the power of his enemies
as his father was that hour. They felt it; or at least one of them did. As for the
other, his strong heart was torn with rage and sorrow: sorrow for the penitent,
whom he truly loved, and whom he now believed, after all his prayers and efforts,
a lost soul; rage against the obstinate heretic, whom he had sought to befriend,
and who had repaid his kindness by snatching his convert from his grasp at the
very gate of heaven, and plunging him into hell.
”I will not believe it,” he reiterated, with pale lips, and eyes that gleamed
beneath his cowl like coals of fire. Then, softening a little as he turned to the
dead–”Would that those silent lips could utter, were it only one word, to say that
death found thee true to the Catholic faith!–Not one word! So end the hopes of
years. But at least thy betrayer shall be with thee amongst the dead to-morrow.–
Heretic!” he said, turning fiercely to Carlos, ”we are here to announce thy doom.
I came, with a heart full of pity and relenting, to offer counsel and comfort, and
such mercy as Holy Church still keeps for those who return to her bosom at the
eleventh hour. But now, I despair of thee. Professed, impenitent, dogmatizing
heretic, go thine own way to everlasting fire!”
”To-morrow! Did you say to-morrow?” asked Carlos, standing motionless,
as one lost in thought.
The other Inquisitor took up the word.
 ccxlix

”It is true,” he said. ”To-morrow the Church offers to God the acceptable
sacrifice of a solemn Act of Faith. And we come to announce to thee thy sentence,
well merited and long delayed–to be relaxed to the secular arm as an obstinate
heretic. But if even yet thou wilt repent, and, confessing and deploring thy sins,
supplicate restoration to the bosom of the Church, she will so effectually inter-
cede for thee with the civil magistrate that the doom of fire will be exchanged
for the milder punishment of death by strangling.”
Something like a faint smile played round the lips of Carlos; but he only
repeated, ”To-morrow!”
”Yes, my son,” said the Inquisitor, promptly; for he was a man who knew
his business well. He had come there to improve the occasion; and he meant to
do it. ”No doubt it seems to thee a sudden blow, and but a brief space left thee
for preparation. But, at the best, our life here is only a span; ’Man that is born of
a woman hath but a short time to live, and is full of misery.’”
Carlos did not look as if he heard; he still stood lost in thought, his head
sunk upon his breast. But in another moment he raised it suddenly.
”To-morrow I shall be with Christ in glory!” he exclaimed, with a counte-
nance as radiant as if that glory were already reflected there.
Some faint feeling of awe and wonder touched the Inquisitor’s heart, and
silenced him for an instant. Then, recovering himself, and falling back for help
upon wonted words of course, he said,–
”I entreat of you to think of your soul.”
”I have thought of it long ago. I have given it into the safe keeping of Christ
my Lord. Therefore I think no more of it; I only think of him.”
”But have you no fear of the anguish–the doom of fire?”
”I have no fear,” Carlos answered. And this was a great mystery, even to
himself. ”Christ’s hand will either lift me over it or sustain me through it; which,
I know not yet. And I am not careful; he will care.”
”Men of noble lineage, such as you are–of high honour and stainless name,
such as you were,” said the Inquisitor–”ofttimes dread shame more than agony.
You, who were called Alvarez de Meñaya, what think you of the infamy, the
loathing of all men, the scorn and mockery of the lowest rabble–the zamarra, the
carroza?”
”I shall joyfully go forth with Him without the camp, bearing his reproach.”
”And stand at the stake beside a vile caitiff, a miserable muleteer, convicted
of the same crimes?”
”A muleteer? Juliano Hernandez?” Carlos questioned eagerly.
”The same.”
A softer light played over the features of Carlos. Then he should see that
face once more–perhaps even grasp that hand! Truly God was giving him every-
ccl

thing he desired of him. He said,–

”I am glad to stand, here to the last, at the side of that faithful soldier and
servant of Christ. For when we go in there together, I dare not hope to be so
highly honoured as to take a place beside him.”
At this point the prior broke in. ”Señor and my brother, your words are
wasted. He is given over to the power of the evil one. Let us leave him.” And
drawing his mantle round him, he turned to go, without looking again towards
Carlos.
But Carlos came forward. ”Pardon me, my lord; I have a few words yet to
say to you;” and, stretching out his hand to detain him, he unconsciously touched
his arm with it.
The prior flung it off with a gesture of angry scorn. There was contami-
nation in that touch. ”I have heard too many words from your lips already,” he
said.
”To-morrow night my lips will be dust, my voice silent for ever. So you
may well bear with me for a little while to-day.”
”Speak then; but be brief.”
”It gives me the last pang I think to know on earth, to part thus from you;
for you have shown me true kindness. I owe you, not forgiveness as an enemy,
but gratitude as a sincere though mistaken friend. I shall pray for you–”
”An impenitent heretic’s prayers–”
”Will do my lord the prior no harm; and there may come a day when he
will not be sorry he had them.”
There was a short pause. ”Have you anything else to say?” asked the prior
rather more gently.
”Only one word, señor.” He turned and looked at the dead. ”I know you
loved him well. You will deal gently with his dust, will you not? A grave is not
much to ask for him. You will give it; I trust you.”
The stern set face relaxed a little before that pleading look. ”It is you who
have sought to rob him of a grave,” said the prior–”you who have defamed him
of heresy. But your testimony is invalid; and, as I have said, I believe you not.”
With this declaration of purely official disbelief, he left the room.
His colleague lingered a moment. ”You plead for the senseless dust that
can neither feel nor suffer,” he said; ”you can pity that. How is it you cannot pity
yourself?”
”That which you destroy to-morrow is not myself. It is only my garment,
my tent. Yet even over that Christ watches. He can raise it glorious from the
ashes of the Quemadero as easily as from the church where the bones of my
fathers sleep. For I am his, soul and body–the purchase of his blood. And why
should it be a marvel in your eyes that I rejoice to give my life for him who gave
 ccli

his own for me?”

”God grant thee even yet to die in his grace!” answered the Inquisitor, some-
what moved. ”I do not despair of thee. I will pray for thee, and visit thee again
to-night.” So saying, he hastened after the prior.
For a season Carlos sat motionless, his soul filled to overflowing with a
calm, deep tide of awed and wondering joy. No room was there for any thought
save one–”I shall see His face; I shall be with Him for ever.” Over the Thing that
lay between he could spring as joyously as a child might leap across a brook to
reach his father’s outstretched hand.
At length his eye fell, perhaps by accident, on the little writing-book which
lay near. He drew it towards him, and having found out the place where the last
entry was made, wrote rapidly beneath it,–

”To depart and to be with Christ is far better. My beloved father is gone to him
in peace to-day. I too go in peace, though by a rougher path, to-morrow. Surely
goodness and mercy have followed me all the days of my life, and I shall dwell
in the house of the Lord for ever.
”CARLOS ALVAREZ DE SANTILLANOS Y MENAYA.”

And with a strange consciousness that he had now signed his name for the last
time, he carefully affixed to it his own especial ”rubrica,” or sign-manual.
Then came one thought of earth–only one–the last. ”God, in his great
mercy, grant that my brother may be far away! I would not that he saw my
face to-morrow. For the pain and the shame can be seen of all; while that which
changes them to glory no man knoweth, save he that receiveth it. But, wherever
thou art, God bless thee, my Ruy!” And drawing the book towards him again, he
added, as if by a sudden impulse, to what he had already written, ”God bless thee,
my Ruy!”
Soon afterwards the Alguazils arrived to conduct him back to the Tri-
ana. Then, turning to his dead once more, he kissed the pale forehead, saying,
”Farewell, for a little while. Thou didst never taste death; nor shall I. Instead of
thee and me, Christ drank that cup.”
And then, for the second time, the gate of the Triana opened to receive Don
Carlos Alvarez. At sunrise next morning its gloomy portals were unlocked, and
he, with others, passed forth from beneath their shadow. Not to return again
to that dark prison, there to linger out the slow and solitary hours of grief and
pain. His warfare was accomplished, his victory was won. Long before the sun
had arisen again upon the weary blood-stained earth, a brighter sun arose for
cclii

him who had done with earth. All his desire was granted, all his longings were
fulfilled. He saw the face of Christ, and he was with Him for ever.

XLVI.
Is it too Late?

”Death upon his face

Is rather shine than shade;
A tender shine by looks beloved made:
He seemeth dying in a quiet place.”–E. B. Browning.

The mountain-snow lay white around the old castle of Nuera; but within there

was light and warmth. Joy and gladness were there also, ”thanksgiving and the
voice of melody;” for Doña Beatrix, graver and paler than of old, and with the
brilliant lustre of her dark eyes subdued to a kind of dewy softness, was singing
a cradle-song beside the cot where her first-born slept.
The babe had just been baptized by Fray Sebastian. With a pleading, wistful
look had Dolores asked her lord, the day before, what name he wished his son
to bear. But he only answered, ”The heir of our house always bears the name of
Juan.” Another name was far dearer to memory; but not yet could he accustom
his lips to utter it, or his ear to bear the sound.
Now he came slowly into the room, holding in his hand an unsealed letter.
Doña Beatriz looked up. ”He sleeps,” she said.
”Then let him sleep on, señora mia.”
”But will you not look? See, how pretty he is! How he smiles in his sleep!
And those dear small hands–”
”Have their share in dragging me further than you wot of, my Beatriz.”
”Nay; what dost thou mean? Do not be grave and sad to-day–not to-day,
Don Juan.”
”My beloved, God knows I would not cloud thy brow with a single care if I
could help it. Nor am I sad. Only we must think. Here is a letter from the Duke of
Savoy (and very gracious and condescending too), inviting me to take my place
once more in His Catholic Majesty’s army.”
”But you will not go? We are so happy together here.”
 ccliii

”My Beatriz, I dare not go. I would have to fight”–(here he broke off, and
cast a hasty glance round the room, from the habit of dreading listeners)–”I would
have to fight against those whose cause is just the cause I hold dearest upon earth,
I would have to deny my faith by the deeds of every day. But yet, how to refuse
and not stand dishonoured in the eyes of the world, a traitor and a coward, I
know not.”
”No dishonour could ever touch thee, my brave and noble Juan.”
Don Juan’s brow relaxed a little. ”But that men should even think it did,
is what I could not bear,” he said. ”Besides”–and he drew nearer the cradle, and
looked fondly down at the little sleeper–”it does not seem to me, my Beatriz, that
I dare bring up this child God has given me to the bitter heritage of a slave.”
”A slave!” repeated Doña Beatriz, almost with a cry. ”Now Heaven help us,
Don Juan; are you mad? You, of noblest lineage–you, Alvarez de Meñaya–to call
your own first-born a slave!”
”I call any one a slave who dares not speak out what he thinks, and act out
what he believes,” returned Don Juan sadly.
”And what is it that you would do then?”
”Would to God that I knew! But the future is all dark to me. I see not a
single step before me.”
”Then, amigo mio, do not look before you. Let the future alone, and enjoy
the present, as I do.”
”Truly that baby face would charm many a care away,” said Juan, with an-
other fond glance at the sleeping child. ”But a man must look before him, and a
Christian man must ask what God would have him to do. Moreover, this letter
of the duke demands an answer, Yea or Nay.”
”Señor Don Juan, I desire to speak with your Excellency,” said the voice of
Dolores at the door.
”Come in, Dolores.”
”Nay, señor, I want you here.” This peremptory sharpness was very unlike
the wonted manner of Dolores.
Don Juan came forth immediately. Dolores signed to him to shut the door.
Then, not till then, she began,–”Señor Don Juan, two brethren of the Society of
Jesus have come from Seville, and are now in the village.”
”What then? Surely you do not fear that they suspect anything with regard
to us?” asked Juan, in some alarm.
”No; but they have brought tidings.”
”You tremble, Dolores. You are ill. Speak–what is it?”
”They have brought tidings of a great Act of Faith, to be held at Seville,
upon a day not yet fixed when they left the city, but towards the end of this
month.”
ccliv

For a moment the two stood silent, gazing in each other’s faces. Then Do-
lores said, in an eager breathless whisper, ”You will go, señor?”
Juan shook his head. ”What you are thinking of, Dolores, is a dream–a
vain, wild dream. Long since, I doubt not, he rests with God.”
”But if we had the proof of it, rest might come to us,” said Dolores, large
tears gathering slowly in her eyes.
”It is true,” Juan mused; ”they may wreak their vengeance on the dust.”
”And for the assurance that would give that nothing more was left them, I,
a poor woman, would joyfully walk barefoot from this to Seville and back again.”
Juan hesitated no longer. ”I go,” he said. ”Dolores, seek Fray Sebastian, and
send him to me at once. Bid Jorge be ready with the horses to start to-morrow at
daybreak. Meanwhile, I will prepare Doña Beatriz for my sudden departure.”

Of that hurried winter journey, Don Juan was never afterwards heard to speak.
No one of its incidents seemed to have made the slightest impression on his mind,
or even to have been remembered by him.
But at last he drew near Seville. It was late in the evening, however, and
he had told his attendant they should spend the night at a village eight or nine
miles from their destination.
Suddenly Jorge cried out. ”Look there, señor, the city is on fire.”
Don Juan looked. A lurid crimson glow paled the stars in the southern sky.
With a shudder he bowed his head, and veiled his face from the awful sight.
”That fire is without the gate,” he said at last. ”Pray for the souls that are
passing in anguish now.”
Noble, heroic souls! Probably Juliano Hernandez, possibly Fray Con-
stantino, was amongst them. These were the only names that occurred to Don
Juan’s mind, or were breathed in his fervent, agitated prayer.
”Yonder is the posada, señor,” said the attendant presently.
”Nay, Jorge, we will ride on. There will be no sleepers in Seville to-night.”
”But, señor,” remonstrated the servant, ”the horses are weary. We have
travelled far to-day already.”
”Let them rest afterwards,” said Juan briefly. Motion, just then, was an
absolute necessity to him. He could not have rested anywhere, within sight of
that awful glare.
Two hours afterwards he drew the rein of his weary steed before the house
of his cousin Doña Inez. He had no scruple in asking for admission in the middle
of the night, as he knew that, under the circumstances, the household would not
fail to be astir. His summons was speedily answered, and he was conducted to a
hall opening on the patio.
 cclv

Thither, after a brief interval, came Juanita, bearing a lamp in her hand,
which she set down on the table. ”My lady will see your Excellency presently,”
said the girl, with a shy, frightened air, which was very unlike her, but which
Juan was too preoccupied to notice. ”But she is much indisposed. My lord was
obliged to accompany her home from the Act of Faith before it was half over.”
Juan expressed the concern he felt, and desired that she would not incom-
mode herself upon his account. Perhaps Don Garçia, if he had not yet retired to
rest, would converse with him for a few moments.
”My lady said she must speak with you herself,” answered Juanita, as she
left the room.
After a considerable time Doña Inez appeared. In that southern climate
youth and beauty fade quickly; and yet Juan was by no means prepared for the
changed, worn, haggard face that gazed on him now. There was no pomp of
apparel to carry off the impression. Doña Inez wore a loose dark dressing-robe;
and a hasty careless hand seemed to have untwined the usual ornaments from
her black hair. Her eyes were like those of one who has wept for hours, and then
only ceased for very weariness.
She stretched out both her hands to Juan–”O Don Juan, I never meant it! I
never meant it!”
”Señora and my cousin, I have but just arrived here. I do not understand
you,” said Juan, rising to greet her.
”Santa Maria! Then you know not!–Horrible!”
She sank into a seat Juan stood gazing at her eagerly, almost wildly. ”Yes; I
understand all now,” he said at last. ”I suspected it.”
He saw in imagination a black chest, with a little lifeless dust within it; a
rude shapeless figure, robed in the hideous zamarra, and bearing in large letters
the venerated name, ”Alvarez de Santillanos y Meñaya.” While she saw a liv-
ing face, that would never cease to haunt her memory until death shadowed all
things.
”Let me speak,” she gasped; ”and I will try to be calm. I did not wish to
go. It was the day of the last Auto, you remember, that my poor brother died,
and altogether—- But Don Garçia insisted. He said everybody would talk, and
especially when the taint had touched our own house. Besides, Doña Juana de
Bohorques, who died in prison, was to be publicly declared innocent, and her
property restored to her heirs. Out of regard to the family, it was thought we
ought to be present. O Don Juan, if I had but known! I would rather have put on
a sanbenito myself than have gone there. God grant it did not hurt him!”
”How could it possibly hurt him, my tender-hearted cousin?”
”Hush! Let me go on now, while I can speak of it; or I shall never, never tell
you. And I must. He would have wished—- Well, we were seated in what they
cclvi

called good places; very near the condemned; in fact, the scaffold opposite was
plain to us as you are to me now. But that last time, and Doña Maria’s look, and
Dr. Cristobal’s, haunted me, so that I did not dare to raise my eyes to where they
sat;–not until long after the mass had begun. And I knew besides there were so
many women there–eight on that dreadful top bench, doomed to die. But at last
a lady who sat near me bade me look at one of the relaxed, a little man, who was
pointing upwards and making signs to his companions to encourage them. ’Do
not look, señora,’ said Don Garçia, quickly–but too late. O Don Juan, I saw his
face!”
”His LIVING face? Not his living face?” cried Juan, with a shudder that
convulsed his strong frame from head to foot And the Name–the one awful Name
that rises to all human lips in moments of supreme emotion–broke from his in a
wail of anguish.
Doña Inez tried to speak; but in vain. Thoroughly broken down, she wept
and sobbed aloud. But the sight of the rigid, tearless face before her checked her
tears at last. She gained power to go on. ”I saw him. Worn and pale, of course;
yet not changed so greatly, after all. The same dear, kind, familiar face I had seen
last in this room, when he caressed and played with my child. Not sad, not as
though he suffered. Rather as though he had suffered long ago; but was beyond
it all, even then. A still, patient, fearless look, eyes that saw everything; and yet
nothing seemed to trouble him. I bore it until they were reading the sentences,
and came to his. But when I saw the Alguazil strike him–the blow that relaxed
to the secular arm–I could endure no more. I believe I cried aloud. But in fact I
know not what I did. I know nothing more till Don Garçia and my brother Don
Manuel were carrying me through the crowd.”
”No word! Was there no word spoken?” asked Juan wildly.
”No; but I heard some one near me say that he talked with that muleteer in
the court of the Triana, and spoke words of comfort to a poor woman amongst
the penitents, whom they called Maria Gonsalez.”
All was told now. Maddened with rage and anguish, Juan rushed from the
room, from the house; and, without being conscious of any settled purpose, in
five minutes found himself far on his way to the Dominican convent adjoining
the Triana.
His servant, who was still waiting at the gate, followed him to ask for or-
ders, and with difficulty overtook him, and arrested his steps.
Juan sternly silenced his faltering, agitated question as to what was wrong
with his lord. ”Go to rest,” he said, ”and meet me in the morning by the great
gate of San Isodro.” Nothing was clear to him; but that he must shake off as soon
as possible the dust of the wicked, cruel city from his feet. And San Isodro was
the only trysting-place without its walls that happened at the moment to occur
 cclvii

to his bewildered brain.

XLVII.
The Dominican Prior.

”Oh, deep is a wounded heart, and strong

A voice that cries against mighty wrong!
And full of death as a hot wind’s blight.
Doth the ire of a crushed affection light.”–Hemans.

”Tell the prior Don Juan Alvarez de Santillanos y Meñaya desires to speak with

him, and that instantly,” said Juan to the drowsy lay brother who at last answered
his impatient summons, lantern in hand.
”My lord has but just retired to rest, and cannot now be disturbed,” an-
swered the attendant, looking with some curiosity, not to say surprise, at the
visitor, who seemed to think three o’clock of a winter morning a proper and
suitable hour to demand instant audience of a great man.
”I will wait,” said Juan, walking into the court.
The attendant led him to a parlour; then, holding the door ajar, he said,
”Let his Excellency pardon me, I did not hear distinctly his worship’s honourable
name.”
”Don Juan Alvarez de Santillanos y Meñaya. The prior knows it–too well.”
It was evident from his face that the poor lay brother knew it also. And so
that night did every man, woman, and child in Seville. It had become a name of
infamy.
With a hasty ”Yes, yes, señor,” the door was closed, and Juan was left alone.
What had brought him there? Did he mean to accuse the Dominican of
his brother’s murder, or did he only intend to reproach him–him who had once
shown some pity to the captive–for not saving him from that horrible doom? He
himself scarcely knew. He had been driven thither by a wild, unreasoning im-
pulse, an instinct of passionate rage, prompting him to grasp at the only shadow
of revenge that lay within his reach. If he could not execute God’s awful judg-
ments against the persecutors, at least he could denounce them. A poor substi-
tute, but all that remained to him. Without it his heart must break.
cclviii

Yet that unreasoning impulse had a kind of unconscious reason in it, since
it led him to seek the presence of the Dominican prior, and not that of the far
more guilty Munebrãga. For who would accuse a tiger, reproach a wolf? Words
would be wasted upon such. For them there is no argument but the spear and
the bullet. A man can only speak to men.
To do Fray Ricardo justice, he was so much of a man that sleep did not visit
his eyes that night. When at length his attendants thought fit to inform him that
Don Juan desired to see him, he was still kneeling, as he had knelt for hours,
before the crucifix in his private oratory. ”Saviour of the world, so much didst
thou suffer,” this was the key-note of his thoughts; ”and shall I weakly pity thine
enemies, or shrink from seeing them suffer what they have deserved at thy hands
and those of thy holy Church?”
”Alvarez de Santillanos y Meñaya waits below!” Just then Don Fray Ricardo
would rather have held his right hand in the fire than have gone forth to face one
bearing that name. But, for that very reason, no sooner did he hear that Don
Juan awaited him than he robed himself in his cowl and mantle, took a lamp
in his hand (for it was still dark), and went down to meet the visitor. For that
morning he was in the mood to welcome any form of self-torture that came in
his way, and to find a strange but real relief in it.
”Peace be with thee, my son,” was his grave but courteous salutation, as he
entered the parlour. He looked upon Juan with mournful compassion, as the last
of a race over which there hung a terrible doom.
”Let your peace be with murderers like yourselves, or with slaves like those
that work your will; I fling it back to you in scorn,” was the fierce reply.
The Dominican recoiled a step–only a step, for he was a brave man, and
his face, pale with conflict and watching, grew a shade paler.
”Do you think I mean to harm you?” cried Juan in yet fiercer scorn. ”Not
a hair of your tonsured head. See there!” He unbuckled his sword, and threw it
from him, and it fell with a clang on the floor.
”Young man, you would consult your own safety as well as your own hon-
our by adopting a different tone,” said the prior, not without dignity.
”My safety is little worth consulting. I am a bold, rough soldier, used to
peril and violence. Would it were such, and such alone, that you menaced. But,
fiends that you are, would no one serve you for a victim save my young, gentle,
unoffending brother; he who never harmed you nor any one? Would nothing
satisfy your malice but to immure him in your hideous dungeons for two-and-
thirty long slow months, in what suffering of mind and body God alone can tell;
and then, at last, to bring him forth to that horrible death? I curse you! I curse
you! Nay, that is nothing; who am I to curse? I invoke God’s curse upon you! I
give you up into God’s hands this hour! When He maketh inquisition for blood–
 cclix

another inquisition than yours–I pray him to exact from you, murderers of the
innocent, torturers of the just, every drop of blood, every tear, every pang of
which he has been the witness, as he shall be the avenger.”
At last the prior found a voice. Hitherto he had listened spell-bound, as
one oppressed by nightmare, powerless to free himself from the hideous burden.
”Man!” he cried, ”you are raving; the Holy Office–”
”Is the arch-fiend’s own contrivance, and its ministers his favourite ser-
vants,” interrupted Juan, reckless in his rage, and defying all consequences.
”Blasphemy! This may not be borne,” and Fray Ricardo stretched out his
hand towards a bell that lay on the table.
But Juan’s strong grasp prevented his touching it. He could not shake off
that as easily as he had shaken off a pale thin hand two days before. ”I shall speak
forth my mind this once,” he said. ”After that, what you please.–Go on. Fill your
cup full to the brim. Immure, plunder, burn, destroy. Pile up, high as heaven,
your hecatomb of victims, offered to the God of love. At least there is one thing
that may be said in your favour. In your cruelties there is a horrible impartiality.
It can never be spoken of you that you have gone out into the highways and
hedges, taken the blind and the lame, and made of them your burnt sacrifice.
No. You go into the closest guarded homes; you take thence the gentlest, the
tenderest, the fairest, the best, and of such you make your burnt-offering. And
you–are your hearts human, or are they not? If they are, stifle them, crush them
down into silence while you can; for a day will come when you can stifle them
no longer. That will begin your punishment. You will feel remorse.”
”Man, let me go!” interrupted the indignant yet half-frightened prior, strug-
gling vainly to free himself from his grasp. ”Cease your blasphemies. Men only
feel remorse when they have sinned; and I serve God and the Church.”
”Yet, servant of the Church (for God’s servant I am not profane enough to
call you), speak to me this once as man to man, and tell me, did a victim’s pale
face never haunt you, a victim’s agonized cry never ring in your ears?”
For just an instant the prior winced, as one who feels a sharp sudden pain,
but determines to conceal it.
”There!” cried Juan–and at last he released his arm and flung it from him–”I
read an answer in your look. You, at least, are capable of remorse.”
”You are false there,” the prior broke in. ”Remorse is not for me.”
”No? Then all the worse for you–infinitely the worse. Yet it may be. You
may sleep and rise, and go to your rest again untroubled by an accusing con-
science. You may sit down to eat and drink with the wail of your brother’s an-
guish ringing in your ears, like Munebrãga, who sits feasting yonder in his marble
hall, with the ashes yet hot on the Quemadero. Until you go down quick into hell,
and the pit shuts her mouth upon you. Then, THEN shall you drink of the wine
cclx

of the wrath of God, which is poured out without mixture into the cup of his
indignation; and you shall be tormented with fire and brimstone in the presence
of the holy angels, and in the presence of the Lamb.”
”Thou art beside thyself,” cried the prior; ”and I, scarce less mad than thou,
to listen to thy ravings. Yet hear me a moment, Don Juan Alvarez. I have not
merited these insane reproaches. To you and yours I have been more a friend
than you wot of.”
”Noble friendship! I thank you for it, as it deserves.”
”You have given me, this hour, more than cause enough to order your in-
stant arrest.”
”You are welcome. It were shame indeed if I could not bear at your hands
what my gentle brother bore.”
The last of his race! The father dead in prison; the mother dead long ago
(Fray Ricardo himself best knew why); the brother burned to ashes. ”I think you
have a wife, perhaps a child?” asked the prior hurriedly.
”A young wife, and an infant son,” said Juan, softening a little at the thought.
”Wild as your words have been, I am yet willing, for their sakes, to show
you forbearance. According to the lenity which ministers of the Holy Office–”
”Have learned from their father the devil,” interrupted Juan, the flame of
his wrath blazing up again. ”After what the stars looked down on last night, dare
to mock me with thy talk of lenity!”
”You are in love with destruction,” said the prior. ”But I have heard you
long enough. Now hear me. You have been, ere this, under grave suspicion. In-
deed, you would have been arrested, only that your brother endured the Question
without revealing anything to your disadvantage. That saved you.”
But here he stopped, struck with astonishment at the sudden change his
words had wrought.
A man stabbed to the heart makes no outcry, he does not even moan or
writhe. Nor did Juan. Mutely he sank on the nearest seat, all his rage and defiance
gone now. A moment before he stood over the shrinking Inquisitor like a prophet
of doom or an avenging angel; now he cowered crushed and silent, stricken to
the soul. There was a long silence. Then he raised a changed, sad look to the
prior’s face. ”He bore that for me,” he said, ”and I never knew it.”
In the cold gray morning light, now filling the room, he looked utterly
forlorn and broken. The prior could even afford to pity him. He questioned,
mildly enough, ”How was it you did not know it? Fray Sebastian Gomez, who
visited him in prison, was well aware of the fact.”
In Juan’s present mood every faculty was stimulated to unnatural activity.
This perhaps enabled him to divine a truth which in calmer moments might have
escaped him. ”My brother,” he said, in a low tone of deep emotion, ”my heroic,
 cclxi

tender-hearted brother must have bidden him conceal it from me.”

”It was strange,” said the prior, and his thoughts ran back to other things
which were strange also–to the uniform patience and gentleness of Carlos; to
the fortitude with which, whilst acknowledging his own faith, he had steadily
refused to compromise any one else; to the self-forgetfulness with which he had
shielded his father’s last hours from disturbance. Granted that the heretic was
a wild beast, ”made to be taken and destroyed,” even the hunter may admire
unblamed the grace and beauty of the creature who has just fallen beneath his
relentless weapon. Something like a mist rose to the eyes of Fray Ricardo, taking
him by surprise.
Still, the interests of the Faith were paramount with him. All that had been
done had been well done; he would not, if he could, undo any part of it. But
did his duty to the Faith and to Holy Church require that he should hunt the
remaining brother to death, and thus ”quench the coal that was left”? He hoped
not; he thought not. And, although he would not have allowed it to himself, the
words that followed were really a peace-offering to the shade of Carlos.
”Young man, I am willing, for my own part, to overlook the wild words you
have uttered, regarding them as the outpourings of insanity, and making more-
over due allowance for your natural fraternal sorrow. Still you must be aware
that you have laid yourself open, and not for the first time, to grave suspicion of
heresy. I should not only sin against my own conscience, but also expose myself
to the penalties of a grievous irregularity, did I take no steps for the vindication
of the Faith and your just and well-merited punishment. Therefore give ear to
what I say. This day week I bring the matter before the Table of the Holy Office,
of which I have the honour to be an unworthy member. And God grant you the
grace of repentance, and his forgiveness.”
Having said this, Fray Ricardo left the room. He disappears also from our
pages, where he occupied a place as a type of the less numerous and less guilty
class of persecutors–those who not only thought they were doing God service
(Munebrãga may have thought that, but he was only willing to do God such ser-
vice as cost him nothing), but who were honestly anxious to serve him to the best
of their ability. His future is hidden from our sight. We cannot even undertake to
say whether, when death drew near,–if the name of Alvarez de Meñaya occurred
to him at all,–he reproached himself for his sternness to the brother whom he
had consigned to the flames, or for his weakness to the brother to whom he had
generously given a chance of life and liberty.
It is not usually the most guilty who hear the warning voice that denounces
their crimes and threatens their doom. Such words as Don Juan spoke to Fray Ri-
cardo could not, by any conceivable possibility, have been uttered in the presence
of Gonzales de Munebrãga.
cclxii

Soon afterwards a lay brother, the same who had admitted Don Juan, en-
tered the room and placed wine on the table before him. ”My lord the prior bade
me say your Excellency seemed exhausted, and should refresh yourself ere you
depart,” he explained.
Juan motioned it away. He could not trust himself to speak. But did Fray
Ricardo imagine he would either eat bread or drink water beneath the roof that
sheltered him?
Still the poor man lingered, standing before him with the air of one who
had something to say which he did not exactly know how to bring out.
”You may tell your lord that I am going,” said Juan, rising wearily, and with
a look that certainly told of exhaustion.
”If it please your noble Excellency–” and the lay brother stopped and hesi-
tated.
”Well?”
”Let his Excellency pardon me. Could his worship have the misfortune to
be related, very distantly no doubt, to one of the heretics who–”
”Don Carlos Alvarez was my brother,” said Juan proudly.
The poor lay brother drew nearer to him, and lowered his voice to a mys-
terious whisper. ”Señor and your Excellency, he was here in prison for a long
time. It was thought that my lord the prior had a kindness for him, and wished
him better used than they use the criminals in the Santa Casa. It happened that
the prisoner whose cell he shared died the day before his–removal. So that the
cell was empty, and it fell to my lot to cleanse it. Whilst I was doing it I found
this; I think it belonged to him.”
He drew from beneath his serge gown a little book, and handed it to Juan,
who seized it as a starving man might seize a piece of bread. Hastily taking out
his purse, he flung it in exchange to the lay brother; and then, just as the matin
bells began to ring, he buckled on his sword and went forth.

XLVIII.
San Isodro Once More.

”And if with milder anguish now I bear

To think of thee in thy forsaken rest;
 cclxiii

If from my heart be lifted the despair,

The sharp remorse with healing influence pressed.
It is that Thou the sacrifice hast blessed,
And filled my spirit, in its inmost cell,
With a deep chastened sense that all at last is well.”–Hemans

The cloudless sky above him, the fresh morning air on his cheek, the dew-drops

on his feet, Don Juan walked along. The river–his own bright Guadalquivir–
glistened in the early sunshine; and soon his pathway led him amidst the gray ru-
ins of old Italica, while among the brambles that half hid them, glittering lizards,
startled by his footsteps, ran in and out. But he saw nothing, felt nothing, save the
passionate pain that burned in his heart. During his interview with Fray Ricardo
he had been, practically and for the time, what the prior called him, insane–mad
with rage and hate. But now rage was dying out for the present, and giving place
to anguish.
Is the worst pang earth has to give that of witnessing the sufferings of our
beloved? Or is there yet one keener, more thrilling? That they should suffer
alone; no hand near to help, no voice to speak sympathy, no eye to look ”ancient
kindness” on their pain. That they should die–die in anguish–and still alone,–

”With eyes turned away,

And no last word to say.”

Don Juan was now drinking that bitter cup to its very dregs. What the young

brother, his one earthly tie, had been to him, need not here be told; and assuredly
he could not have told it. He had been all his life a thing to protect and shield–
as the strong protect the weak, as manhood shields womanhood and childhood.
Had God but taken him with his own right hand, Juan would have thought it a
light matter, a sorrow easily borne. But, instead, He stood afar off–He did not
help; whilst men, cruel as fiends from the bottomless pit, did their worst, their
very worst, upon him. And with refined self-torture he went through all the
horrible details, as far as he knew or could guess them. Nor did he spare to stab
his own heart with that keenest weapon of all–”It was for me; for me he endured
the Question.” The cry of his brother’s anguish–anguish borne for him–seemed
to sound in his ears and to haunt him: he felt that it would haunt him evermore.
Of course, there was a well of comfort near, which a child’s hand might
have pointed out to him: ”All is over now; he suffers no longer–he is at rest.” But
who ever stoops to drink from that well in the parching thirst of the first hour of
cclxiv

such a grief as his? In truth, all was over for Carlos; but all was not over for Juan.
He had to pass through his dark hour as really as Carlos had passed through his.
Again the agony almost maddened him; again wild hatred and rage against
his brother’s torturers rose and surged like a flood within him. And with these
were mingled thoughts, too nearly rebellious, of Him whom that brother trusted
so firmly and served so faithfully; as if he had used his servant hardly, and for-
saken him in his hour of sorest need.
He shrank with horror from every wayfarer he chanced to meet, imagining
that his eyes might have looked on his brother’s suffering. But at last he came
unawares upon the gate of San Isodro. Left unbarred by some accident, it yielded
to his touch, and he entered the monastery grounds. At that very spot, three years
ago, the brothers parted, on the day that Carlos avowed his change of faith. Yet
not even that remembrance could bring a tear to the hot and angry eyes of Juan.
But just then he happened to recollect the book he had received from the lay
brother. He took it from its place of concealment, and eagerly began to examine
it. It was almost filled with writing; but not, alas! from that beloved hand. So
he flung it aside in bitter disappointment. Then becoming suddenly conscious
of bodily weakness, he half sat down, half threw himself on the ground. His
vigorous frame and his strong nerves saved him from swooning outright: he only
lay sick and faint, the blue sky looking black above him, and a strange, indistinct
sound, as of many voices, murmuring in his ears.
By-and-by he became conscious that some one was holding water to his
lips, and trying, though with an awkward, trembling hand, to loose his doublet
at the throat. He drank, shook off his weakness, and looked about him. A very old
man, in a white tunic and brown mantle, was bending over him compassionately.
In another moment he was on his feet; and having briefly thanked the aged monk
for his kindness, he turned his face to the gate.
”Nay, my son,” the old man interposed; ”San Isodro is changed–changed!
Still the sick and weary never left its gates unaided; and they shall not begin now–
not now. I pray you come with me to the house, and refresh and rest yourself
there.”
Juan was not reckless enough to refuse what in truth he sorely needed. He
entered the monastery under the guidance of poor old Fray Bernardo, who had
been passed by, perhaps in scorn, by the persecutors: and so, after all, he had
his wish–he should die and be buried in peace where he had passed his life from
boyhood to extreme old age. Yet there was something sad in the thought that
the storm that swept by had left untouched the poor, useless, half-withered tree,
while it tore down the young and strong and noble oaks, the pride of the now
desolated forest.
The few cowed and terrified monks who had been allowed to remain in the
 cclxv

convent received Don Juan with great kindness. They set food and wine before
him: food he could not touch, but wine he accepted with thankfulness. And they
almost insisted on his endeavouring to take some rest; assuring him that when
his servant and horses should arrive, they would see them properly cared for,
until such time as he might be able to resume his journey.
His journey would not brook delay, as he knew full well. That his young
wife might not be a widow and his babe an orphan, he ”charged his soul to hold
his body strengthened” for the work that both had to do. Back to Nuera for these
dear ones as swiftly as the fleetest horses would bear him, then to Seville again,
and on board the first ship he could meet with bound for any foreign port,–would
the term of grace assigned him by the Inquisitor suffice for all this? Certainly not
a moment should be lost.
”I will rest for an hour,” he said. ”But I pray you, my fathers, do me one
kindness first. Is there a man here who witnessed–what was done yesterday?”
A young monk came forward. Juan led him into the cell which had been
prepared for him to rest in, and leaning against its little window, with his face
turned away, he murmured one agitated question. Three words comprised the
answer,–
”Calmly, silently, quickly.”
Juan’s breast heaved and his strong frame trembled. After a long interval
he said, still without looking,–
”Now tell me of the others. Name him no more.”
”No less than eight ladies died the martyr’s death,” said the monk, who cared
not, before this auditor, to conceal his own sentiments. ”One of them was Señora
Maria Gomez; your Excellency probably knows her story. Her three daughters
and her sister died with her. When their sentences were read, they embraced
on the scaffold, and bade each other farewell with tears. Then they comforted
each other with holy words about our Lord and his passion, and the home he was
preparing for them above.”
Here the young monk paused for a few moments; then went on, his voice
still trembling: ”There were, moreover, two Englishmen and a Frenchman, who
all died bravely. Lastly, there was Juliano Hernandez.”
”Ah! tell me of him.”
”He died as he had lived. In the morning, when brought out into the court of
the Triana, he cried aloud to his fellow-sufferers,–’Courage, comrades! Now must
we show ourselves valiant soldiers of Jesus Christ. Let us bear faithful testimony
to his truth before men, and in a few hours we shall receive the testimony of his
approbation before angels, and triumph with him in heaven.’ Though silenced,
he continued throughout the day to encourage his companions by his gestures.
On the Quemadero, he knelt down and kissed the stone upon which the stake
cclxvi

was erected; then thrust his head among the fagots to show his willingness to
suffer. But at the end, having raised his hands in prayer, one of the attendant
priests–Dr. Rodriguez–mistook the attitude for a sign that he would recant, and
made intercession with the Alguazils to give him a last opportunity of speaking.
He confessed his faith in a few strong, brief words; and knowing the character
of Rodriguez, told him he thought the same himself, but hid his true belief out
of fear. The angry priest bade them light the pile at once. It was done; but the
guards, with kind cruelty, thrust the martyr through with their lances, so that he
passed, without much pain, into the presence of the Lord whom he served as few
have been honoured to do.”
”And–Fray Constantino?” Juan questioned.
”He was not, for God took him. They had only his dust to burn. They have
sought to slander his memory, saying he raised his hand against his own life.
But we knew the contrary. It has reached our ears–I dare not tell you how–that
he died in the arms of one of our dear brethren from this place–poor young Fray
Fernando, who closed his eyes in peace. It was from one of the dark underground
cells of the Triana that he passed straight to the glory of God.”[#]

[#] At the Auto they produced his effigy, of the size of life, clad in his canon’s robe, and with the
arms stretched out in the gesture he had been wont to use in preaching; but it caused such a
demonstration of feeling among the people, that they were obliged hastily to withdraw it.
It was at this Auto that Maria Gonsalez was sentenced to receive two hundred lashes, and to be
imprisoned for ten years, for the kindnesses she had shown the prisoners. An equally severe
punishment was awarded to the under-gaoler Herrera for the offence of having allowed a mother
and three daughters, who were imprisoned in separate cells, an interview of half an hour; while the
many cruelties and peculations of the infamous Benevidio were only chastised by the loss of his
situation and lit advantages, and banishment from Seville.

”I thank you for your tidings,” said Juan, slowly and faintly. ”And now I pray of
you to leave me.”
After a considerable time, one of the monks softly opened the door of their
visitor’s cell. He sat on the pallet prepared for him, his head buried in his hands.
”Señor,” said the monk, ”your servant has arrived, and begs you to excuse
his delay. It may be there are some instructions you wish him to receive.”
Juan roused himself with an effort.
”Yes,” he said; ”and I thank you. Will you add to your kindness by bidding
him immediately procure for us fresh horses, the best and fleetest that can be
had?” He sought his purse; but, remembering in a moment what had become of
 cclxvii

it, drew a ring from his finger to supply its loss. It was the diamond ring that the
Sieur de Ramenais had given him. A keen pang shot through his heart. ”No, not
that; I cannot part with it.” He took two others instead–old family jewels. ”Bid
him bring these,” he said, ”to Isaac Ozorio, who dwells in La Juderia[#]–any man
there will show him the house; take for them whatever he will give him, and
therewith hire fresh horses–the best he can–from the posada where he rested,
leaving our own in pledge. Let him also buy provisions for the way; for my
business requires haste. I will explain all to you anon.”

[#] The Jewish Quarter of Seville.

While the monk did the errand, Don Juan sat still, gazing at the diamond ring.
Slowly there came back upon his memory the words spoken by Carlos on the
day when the sharp facets cut his hand, unfelt by him: ”If He calls me to suffer
for him, he may give me such blessed assurance of his love, that in the joy of it
pain and fear will vanish.”
Could it be possible He had done this? Oh, for some token, to relieve his
breaking heart by the assurance that thus it had been! And yet, wherefore seek a
sign? Was not the heroic courage, the calm patience, given to that young brother,
once so frail and timid, as plain a token of the sunlight of God’s peace and pres-
ence as is the bow in the cloud of the sun shining in the heavens? True; but
not the less was his soul filled with passionate longing for one word–only one
word–from the lips that were dust and ashes now. ”If God would give me that,”
he moaned, ”I think I could weep for him.”
It occurred to him then that he might examine the book more carefully
than he had done before. Don Juan, of late, had been no great reader, except of
the Spanish Testament. Instead of glancing rapidly through the volume with a
practised eye, he carefully began at the beginning and perused several pages with
diligence, and with a kind of compelled and painful attention.
The writer of the diary with which the book seemed filled had not prefixed
his name. Consequently Juan, who was without a clue to the authorship, saw in it
merely the effusions of a penitent, with whose feelings he had but little sympathy.
Still, he reflected that if the writer had been his brother’s fellow prisoner, some
mention of his brother would probably reward his persevering search. So he
read on; but he was not greatly interested, until at length he came to one passage
which ran thus:–
”Christ and Our Lady forgive me, if it be a sin. Ofttimes, even by prayer and
fasting, I cannot prevent my thoughts from wandering to the past. Not to the life
cclxviii

I lived, and the part I acted in the great world, for that is dead to me and I to it;
but to the dear faces my eyes shall never see again. My Costanza!”–(”Costanza!”
thought Juan with a start, ”that was my mother’s name!”)–”my wife! my babe!
O God, in thy great mercy, still this hungering and thirsting of the heart!”
Immediately beneath this entry was another. ”May 21. My Costanza, my
beloved wife, is in heaven. It is more than a year ago, but they did not tell me till
to-day. Does death only visit the free?”
Yet another entry caught the eye of Juan. ”Burning heat to-day. It would
be cool enough in the halls of Nuera, on the breezy slope of the Sierra Morena.
What does my orphaned Juan Rodrigo there, I wonder?”
”Nuera! Sierra Morena! Juan Rodrigo!” reiterated the astonished reader.
What did it all mean? He was stunned and bewildered, so that he had scarcely
power left even to form a conjecture. At last it occurred to him to turn to the
other end of the book, if perchance some name, affording a clue to the mystery,
might be inscribed there.
And then he read, in another, well-known hand, a few calm words, breath-
ing peace and joy, ”quietness and assurance for ever.”
He pressed the loved handwriting to his lips, to his heart. He sobbed over
it and wept; blistering it with such burning tears as scarcely come from a strong
man’s eyes more than once in a lifetime. Then, flinging himself on his knees,
he thanked God–God whom he had doubted, murmured against, almost blas-
phemed, and who yet had been true to his promise–true to his tried and suffering
servant in the hour of need.
When he rose, he took up the book again, and read and reread those pre-
cious words. All but the first he thought he could comprehend. ”My beloved
father is gone to Him in peace.” Would the preceding entries throw any light
upon that saying!
Once more, with changed feelings and quickened perceptions, he turned
back to the records of the penitent’s long captivity. Slowly and gradually the se-
cret they revealed unfolded itself before him. The history of the last nine months
of his brother’s life lay clearly traced; and the light it shed illumined another life
also, longer, sadder, less glorious than his.
One entry, almost the last, and traced with a trembling hand, he read over
and over, till his eyes grew too dim to see the words.
”He entreats of me to pray for my absent Juan, and to bless him. My son,
my first-born, whose face I know not, but whom he has taught me to love, I do
bless thee. All blessings rest upon thee–blessings of heaven above, blessings of
the earth beneath, blessings of the deep that lieth under! But for thee, Carlos,
what shall I say? I have no blessing fit for thee–no word of love deep and strong
enough to join with that name of thine. Doth not He say, of whose tenderness
 cclxix

thou tellest me ours is but the shadow, ’He will be silent in his love’? But may he
read my heart in its silence, and bless thee, and repay thee when thou comest to
thy home, where already thy heart is.”
It might have been two hours afterwards, when the same friendly monk
who had narrated to Don Juan the circumstances of the Auto-da-fé, came to
apprise him that his servant had fulfilled his errand, and was waiting with the
horses.
Don Juan rose and met him. His face was sad; it would be a sad face always;
but there was in it a look as of one who saw the end, and who knew that, however
dark the way might be, the end was light everlasting. ”Look here, my friend,” he
said, for no concealment was necessary there; truth could hurt no one. ”See
how wondrously God has dealt with me and mine. Here is the record of the
life and death of my honoured father. For three-and-twenty years he lay in the
Dominican monastery, a prisoner for Christ’s sake. And to my heroic martyr
brother God has given the honour and the joy of unravelling the mystery of his
fate, and thus fulfilling our youthful dream. Carlos has found our father!”
He went forth into the hall, and bade the other monks a grateful farewell.
Old Fray Bernardo embraced and blessed him with tears, moved by the likeness,
now discerned for the first time, between the stately soldier and the noble and
gentle youth, whose kindness to him, during his residence at the monastery three
years before, he well remembered.
Then Don Juan set his face towards Nuera, with patient endurance, rather
sad than stern, upon his brow, and in his heart ”a grief as deep as life or thought,”
but no rebellion, and no despair. Something like resignation had come to him;
already he could say, or at least try to say, ”Thy will be done.” And he foresaw,
as in the distance, far off and faintly, a time when he might even be able to share
in spirit the joy of the crowned and victorious one, to whom, in the dark prison,
face to face with death, God had so wondrously given the desire of his heart, and
not denied him the request of his lips.

XLIX.
Farewell.

”My country is there;

cclxx

Beyond the star pricked with the last peak of snow.”–E. B. Browning.

About a fortnight afterwards, a closely veiled lady, dressed in deep mourning,

leaned over the side of a merchant vessel, and gazed into the sapphire depths of
the Bay of Cadiz. A respectable elderly woman was standing near her, holding her
pretty dark-eyed babe. They seemed to be under the protection of a Franciscan
friar; and of a stately, handsome serving-man, whose bearing and appearance
were rather out of keeping with his supposed rank. It was said amongst the crew
that the lady was the widow of a rich Sevillian merchant, who during a residence
in London some years before had married an Englishwoman. She was now going
to join her kindred in the heretical country, and much compassion was expended
on her, as she was said to be very Catholic and very pious. It was a signal proof
of these dispositions that she ventured to bring with her, as private chaplain, the
Franciscan friar, who, the sailors thought, would probably soon fall a martyr to
his attachment to the Faith.
But a few illusions might have been dispelled, if the conversation of the
party, when for a brief space they had the deck to themselves, could have been
overheard.
”Dost thou mourn that the shores of our Spain are fading from us?” said
the lady to the supposed servant.
”Not as I should once have done, my Beatriz; though it is still my fatherland,
dearest and best of all lands to me. And you, my beloved?”
”Where thou art is my country, Don Juan. Besides,” she added softly, ”God
is everywhere. And think what it will be to worship him in peace, none making
us afraid.”
”And you, my brave, true-hearted Dolores?” asked Don Juan.
”Señor Don Juan, my country is there, with those that I love best,” said
Dolores, with an upward glance of the large wistful eyes, which had yet, in their
sorrowful depths, a look of peace unknown in past days. ”What is Spain to me–
Spain, that would not give to the noblest of them all a few feet of her earth for a
grave?”
”Do not let us stain with one bitter thought our last look at those shores,”
said Don Juan, with the gentleness that was growing upon him of late. ”Remem-
ber that they who denied a grave to our beloved, are powerless to rob us of one
precious memory of him. His grave is in our hearts; his memorial is the faith
which every one of us now standing here has learned from him.”
”That is true,” said Doña Beatriz. ”I think that not all thy teaching, Don
Juan, made me understand what ’precious faith’ is, until I learned it by his death.”
”He gave up all for Christ, freely and joyfully,” Juan continued. ”While I
 cclxxi

gave up nothing, save as it was wrenched from my unwilling hand. Therefore

for him there is the ’abundant entrance,’ the ’crown of glory.’ For me, at the best,
’Seekest thou great things for thyself, seek them not. But thy life will I give unto
thee for a prey in all places whither thou goest.’”
Fray Sebastian drew near at the moment, and happening to overhear the
last words, he asked, ”Have you any plan, señor, as to whither you will go?”
”I have no plan,” Don Juan answered. ”But I think God will guide us. I
have indeed a dream,” he added, after a pause, ”which may, or may not, come true
eventually. My thoughts often turn to that great New World, where, at least, there
should be room for truth and liberty. It was our childhood’s dream, to go forth
to the New World and to find our father. And the lesser half of it, comparatively
worthless as it is, may fitly fall to my lot to fulfil, another worthier than I having
done the rest.” His voice grew gentler, his whole countenance softened as he
continued,–”That the prize was his, not mine, I rejoice. It is but an earnest of the
nobler victory, the grander triumph, he enjoys now, amongst those who stand
evermore before the King of kings–CALLED, CHOSEN, AND FAITHFUL.”

Historical Note.

It may be asked by some thoughtful reader who has followed the narrative of
the foregoing pages, How much is fact, how much fiction? As the writer’s sole
object is to reveal, to enforce, and to illustrate Truth, an answer to the question
is gladly supplied. All is fact, except what concerns the personal history of the
Brothers and their family. Whatever relates to the rise, progress, and downfall
of the Protestant Church in Spain, is strictly historical. Especially may be men-
tioned the story of the two great Autos at Seville. But much of interest on the
subject remains untold, as nothing was taken up but what would naturally amal-
gamate with the narrative and it was not designed to supersede history, only
to stimulate to its study. Except in the instance of a conversation with Juliano
Hernandez, another with Don Carlos de Seso, and a few words required by the
exigencies of the tale from Losada, the glorious martyr names have been left un-
touched by the hand of fiction. It was a sense of their sacredness which led the
writer to choose for hero a character not historical, but typical and illustrative.
But nothing is told of him which did not occur over and over again, if we except
the act of mercy which is supposed to have shed a brightness over his last days.
He is merely a given example, a specimen of the ordinary fate of such prisoners
of the Inquisition as were enabled to remain faithful to the end; and, thank God,
cclxxii

these were numerous. He is even a favourable specimen; for the conditions of

art require that in a work of fiction a veil should be thrown over some of the
worst horrors of persecution. Those who accuse Protestant writers of exagger-
ation in these matters, little know what they say. Easily could we show greater
abominations than these; but we forbear.
As for the joy and triumph ascribed to the steadfast martyr at the close of
his career, we have a thousand well-authenticated instances that such has been
really given. These embrace all classes and ages, and all varieties of character,
and range throughout all time, from the day that Stephen saw Christ sitting on
the right hand of God, until the martyrs of Madagascar sang hymns in the fire,
and ”prayed as long as they had any life; and then they died, softly, gently.”
It is not fiction, but truest truth, that He repays his faithful servants an
hundred-fold, even in this life, for anything they do or suffer for his name’s sake.

PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN.

 cclxxiii

*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SPANISH BROTHERS

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